The fan spins above my head as I try to understand. There is no breeze and the heavy air is fighting to enter my lungs. I try to focus on the letters popping on the screen in front of me but they are faint and obscure. I write to understand, but understanding is a gift which perhaps I may strive an entire lifetime to unfold. The human mind is somewhat a mystery, or, the mystery of thinking makes the mind strange. The beauty though, is to be able to process the different divergences without compromising one’s reputation. The art of writing is the mystery that keeps many dreaming and us floating. I wish I were capable to discern the eyes peeking through the walls, the ones watching me duel. But they are strangers cheering me up, hoping that I move on and continue the story that I have not dreamed. I feel the pressure—a constant impending attraction to the strange in me, and I, without arguing, respond to its requests.
No comments:
Post a Comment