The revolution

Sometimes she hates her shadow. She wants to run away from it. Then she flies. She flies over lands and hills and lakes and seas. She feels the warmth of sunlight on her wings. She knows that just like her, her shadow is also running with her along the lands and hills and lakes and the seas. But she cannot see her shadow. She takes comfort in her distance from her shadow. (Is that how I think about independence? He thinks.) But as the sun begins to scorch her wings, as all the lands start looking the same shade of vacuous grey, her tired feathers pine for the coolness of her shadow. She disagrees with her senses, but she knows that there is no escape. The shadow, like death, stalks her. It tempts her with its motherly shade. She gives in, and even bows to it. Because she knows that some time she has to. And, with night, it engulfs her. Maybe, it may just be, that we all love death when it comes. And every revolution is doomed at birth.

He is appalled at this verbosity. More so, because it is pointless. But was there ever a point anyway?