I am writing letters to someone who will never read them. As the morning dwindles into this lazy Saturday afternoon, I am sitting at this secluded library in an obscure part of the city, writing letters to someone long lost.
I wanted to show you this, my hidden corners of guilty pleasure. They are a handful, distributed across the place, not in any particular order of preference. These are like little islands of clarity in the stormy, tempestuous waters of my chaotic mind. I wanted to take you through those racks of hastily stacked books, rows and rows of them, where I most feel at home. The shelves of experimental jazz that I listen to when I am sad. Because I like the ebb and flow of old instruments, mainly devoid of words, just a flow of constant music. I wanted to tell you how I would spend so many hours nitpicking through history section, because past is where I thrive. I would have taught you some insignificant endearments in the language I fell in love with. I would have familiarized you with the contours of my french being while you taught me the detours of your valley. What did you call it then? Finer points of life. Doesn't seem so fine now, does it?
Illusions and delusions aside, I discovered words are just that. Plain words. But only issue here is, that, words mean different things to different people at different points in life. For some it is mere irrelevance, momentous, just flesh. For some it is like hope, poetry, magic, idealism and also despair. Despair of recollection in lonely Saturday mornings. Despair of inked words on a makeshift notepad. Despair of a well worn book on an overused library shelf. Despair of me and you, and some unexplored finer points in life.
I wanted to show you this, my hidden corners of guilty pleasure. They are a handful, distributed across the place, not in any particular order of preference. These are like little islands of clarity in the stormy, tempestuous waters of my chaotic mind. I wanted to take you through those racks of hastily stacked books, rows and rows of them, where I most feel at home. The shelves of experimental jazz that I listen to when I am sad. Because I like the ebb and flow of old instruments, mainly devoid of words, just a flow of constant music. I wanted to tell you how I would spend so many hours nitpicking through history section, because past is where I thrive. I would have taught you some insignificant endearments in the language I fell in love with. I would have familiarized you with the contours of my french being while you taught me the detours of your valley. What did you call it then? Finer points of life. Doesn't seem so fine now, does it?
Illusions and delusions aside, I discovered words are just that. Plain words. But only issue here is, that, words mean different things to different people at different points in life. For some it is mere irrelevance, momentous, just flesh. For some it is like hope, poetry, magic, idealism and also despair. Despair of recollection in lonely Saturday mornings. Despair of inked words on a makeshift notepad. Despair of a well worn book on an overused library shelf. Despair of me and you, and some unexplored finer points in life.
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