Manley

Manley lives in a disarrayed ton of routines; he goes about wavering applauses to the same sect that thrusted him. Where do we go when we die? A question that reigns in his mind with no certainty of getting a quick reply. 

However, he works with a revelated transiency of life.

 Like flipped pages lying like the horse in that green towel, he shunned away the closure of the solitude breeze and attempted to put on a paragon of metaphors. 

Living life is never a satisfied one, rather, a pile of thorns, with a distance hatred towards sustaining clinched expectations. Why do we live like this here? 

Manley with his pours of questions about existing would never halt his quests. His life is like a train that only breathes in a track, only, extolling the normalized life cycle, of how-to breath, of how to do and get this at a particular time, of presented responsibilities, even when to pass away. He becomes a victim of passing days created from the carcass of yesterday's choice. Apparently, each being has his own volition, also, the point of realization differs. 

Again, he stares at that same horse lying in that green towel, both eyes locked, although distant, but in it, lies unbraided beauty, endless hope, in its full prime, desiring mutual dines. Manley, with a new plastered optimistic smile walks away.