“When I am too sad and too skinny to keep keeping, when I am a tiny thing against so many bricks, then it is I look at trees. When there is nothing left to look at on this street. Four who grew despite concrete. Four who reach and do not forget to reach. Four whose only reason is to be and be.” When I read it, I feel as if it is written for me. Like those skinny trees, I also grew up despite concrete. Like skinny trees, I always feel an outsider in the group people. Like them, I always feel tiny. And I am one whose only reason is to be and be. I am one, who never loved by the mass. I am one, who always sits at the corner and thinks about her own stuffy world. Considers herself so boring. So idiosyncratic . Sometimes I think that I have to write my own story. The story of my ugliness. The story of my unbelongingness. The story of my hard work. The story of my pain. The story of my uniqueness. But I am not a good writer. Most of the time, I write about myself. I tell my own stori
तर उनीहरुलाई थाहा हुनेछैन, म फर्कनकै लागि गएकी हुँ । उनीहरुका लागि जसलाई मैले पछाडि छोडेँ ।