(Read Caption) The house just next to my door is all empty like a black hole, maybe a little exaggerated metaphor but no one lives there. So one night, I thought of sneaking into it and see who lives there coz every night when I lay all sleepless, I hear voices, music, laughs, cries, in darkness. The stars were brimming with all their starving smiles and the roof of moment welcomed me all in silence as if understanding the language of fetish footsteps. Time captured the memory of audience and I peeped into the past, for what I saw, was history. The history of lives, we all live in our homes, where no one talks or smiles but pretend to be together for the world to remember them. We all are documented tragedies of future coz their past was our present and before nothing there was nothingness. We walk on a thin line of lineage, that if we tilt our heads to see outside the window, we are going to break the history into fragments and the arborist who is curing the damaged trees will find it hard to trace the remedies of its uprooted history. "Should I end my life or this distance or me", the brown eyed wheatish boy cited at the table on the stage, was blabbering it to himself. His mother heard him and she donwcasted her epiphanies into mourns of learning coz she heard somewhere, "the more you learn the less you fear it". His father was nailing the memories on the wall but the wall broke down into expectations and he uttered, "Now, I don't even pray for death nor ask life to hold my hand because everything at the end is nothing". I saw the faces of non existent audience, all paled with the stubbornness of moving forward while cutting down the history of damaged trees. The show ended with a plausible corroboration in silence and not even smiles or talks were exchanged, like the lives we live in our homes.
