Dear Readers,
Eventually I have reached this conclusion that people who study literature are beautiful souls and are gifted people in more than one way. The mere pleasure of their presence is so enchanting and influencing even though they not speak a word. All the novels, poems, letters, short stories, classics they read leaves inside them an unfathomable quest to understand the unknown, to predict the unpredictable and to gauge the unmeasurable.
History is for the disturbed soul. A soul caught in the vicious circles of punarjanma, of Karma and wandering wild in the layers of time and space, trapped inside the prism of our multiple Universes. I always knew that deep down in me is an actor who loves to pretend and role-play in real life. I enjoy locking myself up in this cocoon and enjoying my privacy but my cozy winter hibernation is interrupted by these 'literature types' who just see through me. They lay me bare and are able to read through my gimmicks. The feeling is horrible. Nothing hurts an actor more than a mild chide pointing out his under-performance.
Yet, one always waits for the next encounter. This is also for the reason that all that a cheerful mind wishes to display, to showcase ( to show the world through his eye) can be best understood by these receivers of human emotions. They don't judge you but take you as you are, just as they would receive any of the characters in the stories or study a chisel strike on a monolith. Its a joy to show them what you want to. But one has to watch out, because even here, it is they who call the shots.
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