The dude in the white over-coat dabs a needle into my arm. Once. And the syringe only sucks out air. Twice; A maroon-ish liquid. And just when I don't expect it, once again. Till he fills all of his four test tubes. Like they say, it's one thing to feel it and another to see it. And since it's alright to not have daddy to hold my hand, it's alright to see it, too.
I have officially surrendered to the fact that everything is symbolic. And that every act is fully loaded with irony. So, I'll stop pondering over seeing the two inch needle go into my arm and call it a bittersweet pinch from reality.
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