Life took me to the climax of sadness, where I really felt bad. That was the time I was ignored by some of my friends and relatives. So writing ended up being my best friend since childhood. I lost myself in trying to be theirs, but my sacrifices and trials were waste. I acted like the vain crow. The crow who wore peacocks feathers to look like one. I only wanted fame, so that all could stop ignoring me. I did not even try sometimes, to find the real me.

Look at a worn out piece of cloth, it is basically thrown into thrash or called a rag. Was I one of them?

© Pam-1710