In the depths of acute and void silence, a continuum of languishing want makes its presence felt with the sound of feeble steps.
Where there is nothing, I mean nothing, a singular identity hopes for a companion to whisper the depths of its yearning.
In every stroke of sound called music, there is a demand of a nod that comes from the listener who marvels the tune sitting on an unrecognizable plane.
While every cell and nerve and tendon functions up to its maximum limit, there is an undefined unit of the body that keeps itself busy in an activity called wait. Even if everything meets its end, this probe seems to fail in its quest of finding the One: The One, who is; the One, who was; the One, who will be.
Why the heart pines desperately to meet the unknown reality; why there is an increasing outcry of recognizing the entity that never showed its face?