The billowy storm clouds embracing the vicinity , a brush painting the forest in smoky hues.
A calligraphy which she is not trying to decipher, has been drawn by them with trees.
Moist and cold breeze which can make you numb in minutes, still the window is open.
The drops of rain in her cheeks are as fresh as the Dews on the petals of rose and as cold as the frost on her windowpane.
The cup of coffee is waiting to touch her soft but pale lips, the steam is fading but this is not her concern though, she loves hot coffee.
Her eyes still have the comfort and serenity at the corner but today they are rheumy and her hollow gaze is fix at something inconspicuous.
Between her window and the forest the distance,which she never measured on foot now seems less, her thoughts are floating in between.
The reality is excruciating and the dreams are elusive, two different roads with their own risks.
What she is looking for is hard to find outside the window, the answers of some pertinent questions.
Warm blanket covering her legs till knee and the coffee is still waiting....oh a book lying in her lap without any fold in the corner of any page, she must have lost the page.
Only thing which proves she is alive is her breathing, sitting at the window she is the painting herself.
She is the riddle , a mystery which is hard to solve.