As i crush my words against the benevolent gestures of the literature, i sense a tendency within me to not to follow my own instincts, very well described by my own words, indefinitely leading my own existence, to the void.
Everything around me whether a thing or a person claiming to possess some sort of existence, scream me from the depth of its tremendous potential. Unlike me, everyone is seeking expression of experience in the mindless hunger of success. Success- a relative phenomenon. If i were to decide the right moment and the right perspective of my life, i would have been merely an ugly creature with no size, shape or face either. Crowd has no face nor do i have any of a similar kind but nevertheless i continue to pursue the undefined. The hot pursuit i enjoy along with my integrity and dignity, it makes me interesting and make me fall in love with me. Yes! Just like a mirror. You see, how you see yourself in the mirror.
Constructive ambush I produce when I am writing is really not a mere show off. I live the moment when it comes to writing. The process of writing which lets me have my time with myself gives the same satisfaction I would get while performing some rock number in front of the listeners. The only difference is now my words get crowded on a blank sheet.
With my karma I feel the speed. I travel, travel and travel. I write I survive I gamble I refuse I reject I contradict I predict and I succumb. I succumb to the literature. I succumb to the power I feel I get through writing. Perhaps I don’t deny this one thing about me but at the same time one shouldn’t underestimate the immense knowledge and expressions of human existence that literature offers. Whatever you do, you make an impression of yourself in your own eyes that you are becoming a part of this unattainable race. All we can do is considering ourselves as void. And enjoy the journey with all possible complexities.