HiveComb

It is December again. The end of year. The month where some people tend to reflect on what has been accomplished during the year, their plans for next year and how they wish to end this year. Many choose to celebrate the end and beginning of year. But, this was not the case with John.

In John's mind, this was the second end of year of having the same thought. Maybe, it was the third! Or, fourth! He lost count of time as days are not days to him anymore. He used to have a more sense of time. But, the calendar year seems to him as a big art gallery now, where different rooms represents years and each painting in each room represent days and he somehow missed something up, that the colors of yesterdays are melting and overflowing to the other paintings, while still maintaining to be different. But, holding the fact that they are all holding the same noise and consistently unclear.

His thoughts were like a voice, trying to make sense of it all, while judging him harshly with constantly presenting the question: What Did You Achieve?.
He knows for a fact that, achievements are not things that have to be compared or validated by others. There is a strange feeling within him that tells him, that it does not make sense to get directions from someone who is walking a different path. Each one has their own path.

He stopped their. Dropped the paper, and stared at his son for a while. Then he broke the silence and said, there is beauty in the weirdest things possible. Sometimes, uncertainty has its own beauty, keeping us on an edge, still attempting, still trying and humble. He told his wife: he is sleeping right now. But, remind me to tell him tomorrow morning that it takes courage to speak ones mind, even when it is done with a pen. Remind me to tell him that tomorrow, when he wakes up.

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