Thoughts

Is it just me, or the every other writer, to whom the earth appears more beautiful at the night?

I was wondering why, sipping my coffee, standing in my balcony, looking around for answers.

What is the night made of, and what is the night made for?

The answer, as per my interpretation of it, is 'thoughts'.

Maybe the earth appears more beautiful because of the moon, or maybe because we think that the moon is beautiful.

Or, maybe because we see so less at the night. The less we see, the more we think. Who has the time to stop by the footpath and admire the serenity of the sky in broad daylight? Who does even think about it, except us, the writers?

We see so less of these concrete jungles, breathing so much filth. We see so less of the poor, their hunger, their thirst. The discomfort they are comfortable with. We see so less cracks in the buildings, in relationships. There's so less dirt on things, on memories. There're so less screams, except for the agony's. 

We see so less, of so many things.

But fellas, I'm a writer. I'm more comfortable with the truth, than the beauty. And though the earth mesmerizes me with its magnificence in this darkness, the scream of its agony penetrates me, while I sip my coffee, standing in my balcony.

I see the wind move gently, soaking the earth's pain, and I see the branches of the trees curve down, to caress it. That, fellas, is beautiful. 

And grievous.

A helpless teardrop escapes my eye.

The uncomfortable truth is, I can write about a world with lesser concrete jungles, lesser hunger, and thirst. I can write about a world with much lesser discomfort. Where neither the buildings nor the relationships have cracks, where the memories have not faded away under dozens of dirt.

And I ask you, what does it take to realize a such world?

The answer, as per my interpretation of it, is the same, 'thoughts'.