Dreams are really weird: even if i had the opportune to go – could that be my subconscious catechising my irrationality? It doesn’t have to be a distant friend, or a family member, the question is ultimately one that demands a sincere answer from the self.
Maybe i’ve ran myself through an almost impossible scenario, in sleep – the squeals, they are but a part of a dream. nonetheless, the excitement couldn’t be restrained. it was surreal, even when in the realm of surreality: but that simply ascertained how illogical a thought it was, which clearly wasn’t thought through.
i think i always want to travel: to get away from the mundane comforts of the city life, to meet people who could teach me a thing or two that i never knew about living and to learn to be less of a complacent ingrate. i want to experience freedom before allowing myself to settle like the rightful piece of a jigsaw taking its place on the puzzle. till then, one of the few things that satiate this feeling is meeting travellers who come here to look for their own answers too, and to indulge… in books that transport you to a different society: be it in the words of a poet, or an essay that provides an individual’s perspective of their society, or the story of a nobody who had an experience that was their own to call. and in all of that, i imagine. that i am in a conversation with them, and this was something significant in their lives, or an idea they conceived that may not have been too conventional to be accepted by their community. and in books i could find the sort of comfort in warming my feet in someone else’s shoes, to have the world understood from their viewpoint rather than mine, mine and only mine.
Although, now that school has begun – i have no idea how to finish three books that are about to due in 10 days while savouring them. ho hum.
But all the dead of all times, the dead of the past, the dead of the future; confident in there superiority, they mock us, they mock this little island of time we live in, this tiny time of the new Europe, they force us to grasp all its transience…
– Encounter, Milan Kundera