I don’t know my age. Someone once told me I must be 150, going by the creases that have sculpted my face over the years. Each and every day of my life when I wake up early in the morning, I’m somehow forced to believe that it might be my last. But, then again, I go to sleep at night with hope hidden behind my thick broken glasses, expecting to see a better tomorrow. I live on a hilltop, not too far away from the ever expanding city, which some years before was not even visible for miles across. Today, I get up, not to the sweet chirping of the sparrows, or to the melodious gush of the river, but to the crackling noise of the traffic, and the roaring engines of the metal-coated cars across the huge tar streets. The fog has now turned into unhealthy air obscuring the clarity of the sky. And as a result, the yellowish-orange morning sun has begun to look brown. And I witness it even after I clean my glasses without a speck of dust sitting on it. Today, the sun rises, but the hope falls. The warmth of the morning now brings a cold wave instead, which chills me to the bone, gripping me with fear till the night comes. Today, the morning doesn’t look new at all, but rather looks like a large shadow of the scary tomorrow. The birds that sing their tunes in sync with the morning’s rhythm have migrated in search of a better habitat, as their safe and serene haven has been slashed and burned for our quintessential needs. Green is no longer the colour that encircles the periphery of my modest residence with dew drops shining on top of the grassland. Every morning, all that stands in front of my dying, searching eyes is a sight I would want to forget the moment I blink. And all that I believe in now is a distant dream that will infuse life back into these colourless, dark mornings that once used to bring heaven on top of this hill. I hope to see that day before my so-called eternal age finally comes to a permanent halt.