Smoke is rising higher than buildings, buildings of stone and of ambitions, leaving being soot of regret and remains of dreams. What set the fire, one might wonder. What let the goals crumble down. What let the fighters to quit. As one walks through the debris, eyes start to look for a house, even a small one would do, to protect from the cold to set in. To protect oneself from getting plagued by the disease of quitting. It is quite rampant afterall! "It was too tough, it wasn't for me, was just too hard" I might be tempted to argue, but in my heart I know all I needed was one last round. To stand there for some more time, to run for one more lap. At least I could have said, that I lost. But now it feels worse than loosing. Leaving behind a lingering guilt and agony. A constant urge of knowing and feeling, what might have been the outcome. Fighting, it seems, is not a choice, it is a necessity.

Silver linning of this cloud of rising smoke however, is that, it is very likely that some spark is still in there