The couch and the connection.

The red couch called out to her
She hadn’t been on it for some days now
She had fondly always called it her ‘thinking couch’
It bore this tag like a crown.
The couch was seated in the main area of the sitting room,
It looked out to a green park
Whenever she was upset or happy,
She would sit in it and rejuvenate to get her spark.
But now the couch had seen her cross it day and night
She did not stop, she did not show delight
It knew that something was wrong
But what could it do, it was only a couch and didn’t know what to do about her plight.
Then one day after some days,
She came back to sit on the couch.
She was not at ease,
The couch could feel the ouch.
The girl cried and cried and could not stop
Her tears would just constantly drop
And as if the couch had ears and could console her,
She talked to it and talked again
She revealed her story, she revealed her pain.
Her eyes swollen, her voice numb,
She disclosed her pain, her voice barely a hum.
She cried because she felt sad about how she could not help that some things happened
She cried because she could not help that some things anyway happened.
Her story the couch heard patiently,
It wished it could tell her that-
Happening and not are a part of the same life,
One must learn and teach from experiences wide
But just then the girl shouted out loud
She shrieked, she howled, she fell down on the ground
And that is when the couch just broke and fell too
As if to prove that, with every happening, there existed a CONNECTION TOO.

-Stuti

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