Day in day out, we tend to take to the roads that assure us to take somewhere. It is a life lived very often in plenty of familiar monotony and apparent inescapable boredom, but free of risk and adventure. Same faces, same contours and same smells-we prefer to like or rather we force ourselves to succumb. It is like being remaining glued to a makeshift web of the spider spun by none other but us. It is so suffocating that we rot over the decaying but freshly painted hanging bridges, knowing well that the next day perhaps they may turn out to be our most cherished unmaking of ourselves nurtured secretly as calculated dangers.That is why, I often thought of venturing out to walk briskly on the roads going to nowhere with disjointed tall bridges-just to be myself and none else; though I never did it even one so far. Till now, it has remained a beautiful dream in me; the day after I lost my childhood. Since then, I just wanted to reach a bridge of no return after traversing the roads of no return-I know it would have no entry or exit routes and a mysterious history of its own.
May be someday, I will ask my Maori friend about it and perhaps ask her to stand still beside me on the bridge above the rainbows.