The day turns dark, bleak. All you can see now is no end in sight. There's a black tunnel a stream of black colored water flowing down, paints you a picture of oil so crude. Thunder shatters, frightens and goose pimples, shivers of the cold night, even a thick jacket can feel this, warm on the inside but wet on the outside. Lonely jungle quiet habitation. The road is clumsy, sloppy down a path of narrow breeze. And there are hills all around you, slopes and hills, rivers on the side, prison in the middle of the water. Iconic bridge giant in front of you, like a pave-way to millions on a daily path. It reminds you of several deaths to make the million pass through, a chain of lost souls, holding hands to thread a path for millions coming after them. The gates are locked, the dungeons are empty, the abode is ancient, it holds lots history. Caves are carved above you like a door entrance in its natural form. The bush is scary, wet puddles all around you. You want to run and scream, but all you have left in your lungs won't take you a rather long time, you are exhausted. Its a twisted feeling, amidst being lost, helpless and freedom. How can freedom be found in a solitary mountain? Whistles of the nights start to blow, the song it brings to mind 'May it be' - Enya. Sounds can reach even solitary places where words are absent.
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photo credit: www.google.com/images
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