lines

Lines don't have to be straight always.

They can be curved , bent or non- existent.

Lines you see on the corner of the eyes.

Lines when someone smile.

Foreheads furrowed with lines.

Wrinkles too, are line.

They are Beautiful.

What is unsaid is a line and what needs to be said is a line too.

The pause in the conversation is a line.

Some lines are streched, some short-lived.

Lines connect and lines break apart.

bridging and breaking .

I was on the metro the other day, a web of lines crisscrossing under the city's breath. Different paths, different stories, flowing alongside each other. I couldn't help but wonder: are these lines, like the ones etched into our faces, unique? Could they be fingerprints of the soul, invisible lines that separate the ordinary from the extraordinary. Every face, every wrinkle, every fleeting glance a story untold.

I wanted to ask them. I wanted to hear how life had shaped them, —how they wore their stories. But the moment passed. The metro stopped. And I stepped off.

Maybe the questions will remain unspoken. Maybe the lines are meant to remain mysteries, hanging in the air between us. But that's the beauty of it, isn't it?

Lines don't need to be understood to be beautiful. They just are.