Eyes swept down a road this evening, a bit farther than usual. I could see the canopy, of clouds, trees and people, gliding, swaying and moving towards the past. It seemed as if it were inviting me, the sun a happier shade of orange at that end, as if the past were full, of only of the joys that I remembered, and the forgotten never existed. The wind too liked that direction, for it carried my thoughts there. It seemed perfect, that past of mine, - a perfect story woven by an author of skill, a tussle between tragic interludes and merrier moments. A friendly tug pulled me back to the present, and reminded me that my past in all of it's glory, was nothing but a memory that I have, and that road too, would take me somewhere in the future, like all roads always do.