"The pens have been lifted and the ink has dried." Prophet Muhammad [At-Tirmithi]
Every time im struck with the pain of breaking out of the deluding strums of this world. I read what I wrote the last time I was there. Its like writing all those times in my life I had unknowingly defined the pattern for my destiny. Those writings/tales not just contain inside them experiences from my past but surprisingly my future too. For every new happening it feels I dont need to tell a new story. The old stories suffice fairly. It is as if I have lived all there is to life in those first few iterations of the cycle of my life. Yet for every new delusion I feel as happily imbecilic as before and for every new closure to it I feel even more deteriorated.