And what is that thing which you promise to provide?- ‘The beauty of the soul and the simplicity of happiness’, he replied.
People forget history nowadays, he lamented, that is what the ego does, making one the prisoner of one’s inflated present, ignoring the humble past one has lived.
Why one enjoys maternal grandparents more than the paternal ones, i have never understood, but it was like that for me.
He is too presumptuous about the inanities of appearances, poor realities gone for a toss.
One needs longing to live and enemies make one long for them.
It is destiny which takes you to people who have the answers to your questions.
History tells creativity is a result of Soul song.
Annant is Pickwick paperless, the hunter of wisdom and due to Lovelace heart, a budding poet-ass.
The words explain us all, each having a meaning in a meantime: every time for a lifetime.
An orchestra of temple bells and chanting erupted suddenly like a pleasing drizzle.
Indeed you have what it takes to care like a mare, but can misters br one?
Why can’t one live a life of disappearing?An invisible man- the real superman.
it feels nice to know about things and about oneself.
On hindsight every failure is the best medicine, bitter but effective
While in England write or get wrought rotten rusted.
Her tears still lay, unattended, on my bosom…I wouldn’t wipe them, for she might stop paying me visits.
Religion is a good time pass, better than philosophy, and a million times better than love; love is a wastage of an era.
Between us what it was? i couldn’t fathom, till she was gone.
He didn’t ask because he didn’t wanted to know. If you know, moments die an instant death. She held his hand in hers; hiding them like a pearl; her coral eyes ensconcing his pain.
That is what the opposites do, cross the swords invariably and unknowingly.
Life cannot be lived without irritations and angers; fights and placation-A cycle of Karma, wheels of succor.
When the wound is fresh it hurts, more so when you are reminded to the hurt time and again
I was sent to a school with bosses for teachers- no Twain, only cane; check your dick you harry, no Dickens either, No Tom Sawyers no David Copperfields only Webster, master it for grammar, the Wren with a dash of Martini-Drink deep.
For, if after fifty you don’t live the aspirations of the young, go away. Who needs needs spectacled snails, salivating on the Soma of youth.
People who are left alone tell the story but are never a part of it; those who are a part of the crowd, are story bound, acting upon the role assigned to them in the theater of living, loving and longing.
Sameness of existence. Conformity is inevitable. So is search.
She liked the idea of a place belonging to the cows, no ownership of human ego.
I was grown up long before the grown ups were the grown ups.
It is better to die than carry the burden of expectations, you die every moment then, bearing situations you are not supposed to put up with.
People forget history nowadays,that is what the ego does, making one the prisoner of one’s inflated present, ignoring the humble past one had lived.
In her spare time she scribbled her thoughts, wishes and dreams, life and times. It kept her sane despite her loneliness.
Two conclusions follow, die a death, live a death.
What can a fallen star wish for, but it fulfills other’s wishes, is it not?
The gods are real crazy when it comes to prayers. They listen to some sometimes and do not listen to some sometimes. But the whole world prays, nonetheless-All the time
Immortality, thou art a chimerical bridesmaid of life.
Why love has to intense? Women’s love isn’t. It is a male contribution to a relationship. What does a woman contribute? Children continuity- intentional immortality.
An array of colorful camps dotted the river banks, like a garrison of army on a peace keeping mission. A mini India, many great nations. different people living in the same place, an inversion of the notion of nation.
She was finally owned up- it took death as a price for her being accepted.
To each his own. A billion Buddhas. A billion streams of wisdom. All smiling in their anguish.
All writers pen sad stories to garner sympathy, writing is after all for the abandoned of the society: the ink-leech, spewing black blood and sucking innocent souls.