She is like frozen water. (Whose nature is to flow but frozeness in it, not let it allow)
Now a days...Sun just rise and set in the darkness.
She knows Lily of Virginia...
She weeps with Mariam of Hussein...
She cried for Prynne of Hawthorne...
She burns in the pain of Sita of Amish...
All this stuff
Creats hell in her life
She walks alone on the path of dreams.
She wants to travel of thousands miles far and wide
She want to sink in her own art so deep...
But...
She can't breath simply cause now she aware in prison of golden chain....
But She don't have magic like Rowling shows in life of Voldemort who never give up for the dream.
At last she is... Different from this all fantasy.
Victim of responsibility, reality and rarity in life.
Longing between hope and hopelessness. But as she knows there is thousands splendid Suns will rise with hope only.
