I read about farmers, their lives and their difficulties.
I read hike in petrol prices.
I read stampede killed 60.
i heard somebody got admission at good place.
I heard somebody claiming that their art is the only one, others are nothing.
I heard somebody saying somebody is just not doing anything. He is fired.
I have home, mother, father and some more relations, by default.
I have few people, I don't know what they are exactly to me. I know myself through them. They serve as connections to me.
And, then I have these thoughts, a future about which I hardly know, fears, insecurities, puzzles, philosophical traumas, failed days, disturbed nights, crash down of own system, recovery for new crash, so much for one brain.
I put in front of some listener, either I imagine or I get one. Listener just listens. Listener is like a large jar in which muddy water is kept. Jar doesn't clean water, it gets nothing on that water or of that mud, it just allows water to calm down, it allows water to reflect in itself and see mud separate from water.Listener does this. I feel settled, not solved. Questions stay away, at bottom, I feel clear, calm, till I try to reach the listener. I cannot. I should not. Listening needs a distance. Listening needs a continuous tension, uncertain but interesting time which will keep current flowing. Move closer, everything turns into nothing.
Sometimes I encounter to strange thing called 'truth'. It is really a funny thing. It exists in contradictions, which is it's twin brother. Inseparable twin.
I told one friend that taking life in thoughts, sketching some definitions and then evaluating own actions with them is not real. Reality is indefinite. What I am doing then? If these words are not sketches of what I dream, what are they? mere fun? Why I end up contradicting even a simplest statement of mine about reality? Is reality not simple at all?
Eternal is something strongly felt at a particular moment. Try feeling a time, many eternals seem ephemerals. Try feeling a space, even own existence seems illusive. Don't try it frequently though.
Writing is putting your turmoils into fictional ones. It is real difficult. Once turmoils are realized, they tend to hide themselves. Story teller must fool himself ( Sorry to feminists, But I am man, can't help, I will use him) while taking those turmoils out and putting them into fictionals. Even a word is recited in mind, fiction seems fiction. Writer has strange sort of disconnection with inner core, cheating that makes writing real. It is not a simple cost. To keep your characters real, exclusion of very real people is needed.
Was it truth? The one I above wrote above? It mostly be illusion. Words often fail to carry burden of meaning. Beautiful words turn into uglier memories.
I have few simple questions for myself:
1. Is there a place where I can sleep with peace?
2. What exactly I do in least boring manner to myself?
3. To what extent I need people and people need me?
There is one hope, one day I will reach where I supposed to be. This is not my finding, I borrowed it from one movie.