The Pretention

A Pretension of Nature.

All a beautiful pretension of nature.

It made me believe the rain was mine alone— that every little drop upon a leaf waited for my touch, for my careless running through the branches.

I thought the moon followed only me, its favourite child, faithful and silent above every road I walked, every car I travelled in.

The church beneath my school, glorious when I chanted Namah Shivaya with all my faith beneath its steeple, felt like a place written into my story, 

Only it wasn't.

I was merely passing through— a naive little traveller who mistook interest for ownership, and somehow became a fleeting character in the church's far older tale.

The realization struck like a closing door:

Nothing was mine. Not the rain, not the moon, not even myself.

Our lives are only stories, brief threads knotting and unknotting within countless others.

And tell me— how certain are you that your story will be remembered?

The rain moves on. The sun moves on. The moon moves on.

Even my church— the church that taught me sanity, that gathered the fragments of me and waited for the next curious naive little girl.

And perhaps that is the lesson:

I was never the story.

Only a page, turned gently by time.

Therefore, I try to get the best out of each word in it, in the mystery book authored by God knows who.