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I pity the classicists of the 18th century. Blind devotions. Lust for sanity. Pestilence and empty wit. I recently read about how they were deceived by the dulling film of familiarity which they never tried to see through. The romanticists knew better. They scraped off this film and draped the world in the light of their imagination and well, everything struck them with iridescent, prismatic effects. I could’ve been a Byron but never a Wordsworth. I have never known the surface, I’ve always been friends with profundity. And meaning. I don’t see Nature as a spiritual being, capable of making me serene. I have come to terms with how I can never know calm, not because it’s beyond me but because I cannot, I just cannot live with it. Chaos makes you descend into madness. But, it is the only way to evolve. Sometimes, I tend to ask questions to myself that have no definite answers. Sometimes, there are no answers at all. My thoughts are too abstract and I hide behind my metaphors and images. I’m not too proud of it but that’s how it is. The bare truth. Passengers in their fluid sleep, dream of landscapes they’ve never seen. The torrential winds that unknowingly attempt to wound the wings of birds are the same winds that push them towards the edge of the eternal horizon. I despise change yet I thrive in it. I hate it when I drown in my emotions but I know that without them, I’m nothing. I seek solitude but I’m afraid to be alone. What is this life? Philosophers, poets, scientists, humble farmers and I’d dare say, even the wild beasts have tried to find answers to this unanswerable question. Is it a quest or is it a journey? Do you seek the truth or do you stay receptive and wait for it to come to you? I’m just a speck of sand in this deserted desert waiting for the same torrential winds that will bring me the rain. The rain may give me a few answers and even if it doesn’t, it will bring a smile to my face. And a countless number of thoughts, of course. Writers like us, we take the weather too seriously anyways.

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