I want to write, scribble few thoughts And spill those feelings tied in knots and loops of oblivion On a sheet that has seen and lived and breathed the words … Continue reading The Words That Once Were There
Valentin Louis Georges Eugène Marcel Proust, French novelist, critic, essayist and a philosopher in his own right. You know when it’s time, you know when it’s that one moment which … Continue reading Marcel Proust
It’s difficult to understand everything, it’s like reading in shadows, fleeting light from the creeks of windows and doors. Life has become interminably incomprehensible, dried and cracked. There are spaces enough to get in and probe yet so hardened that I perish the thought of what’s beyond those cracks.
I have no patience nor energy left to fight and grapple with people, and the world around me. I’m just letting it be- everything. I want to be left alone in peace and not be bothered about.
May be it’s me who is a difficult person or may be not. Whatever may be the case. I still would prefer to be left at it and not be badgered about that. Sometimes, leaving one in peace is enough to settle down the nerves.