There’s a certain euphemism surrounding our ability to read and write; the ever continual battle between what’s felt and that needs be penned. It need not be established that feelings can arise in accordance with the subject matter that is read, in which case the events of the day seemed too nugatory in comparison to what I was about to comprehend from a written story;
An inspired story it was; all in all giving a contemporary and an exquisitely intricate description of a particular matter that seemed to have it’s worst turn on my mental well being. In so far as to suffice that the matter at hand was of little significance, it’s impact however, was far too severe for me to conceal the over whelming urge for me to ponder upon it in writing. The unnecessary complications of this article testify the layered intricacy with which an explanation to the decisions of my life are hard to deduce; For it’s one thing to hurt a loved one by misfortune and another to push away every living soul that once felt a little something. What if both of these deeds are my sin.
There’s always a certain path that leads toward the judgment of another, and the path is but bifurcated in two according to my conscience. One is to judge the being by it’s beauty and it’s grandeur, although temporary; And another is to judge a being by it’s sheer intelligence. Reading and writing apart, a major share of what we take to as a source of our feelings is being able to converse. Intelligence in turn judged by the efficiency of the conversation one puts up, with disregard to his personal matters at hand and possibly well beyond the realms thus covered by this ego. This then would be the choice of my judgment upon people. Conscience did but little wherein I should have felt that judgment is a two sided affair.
There shall always be then, a point in all our lives wherein we regret the decisions that we made, be it business, education, love, or that silly bet that put you behind bars for the night. All of which are the poor path of judgment chosen. What I read was a story about a couple deeply in love with each other. And the excerpt was focused on one aspect of their lives where I myself had the pleasure of my lifetime; Even then, how I wished the complications in life could be pulled out as a single twine, for the poor judgments I made either in the way I judged people for who they were or for the plain misfortune that put me in the path to redeem myself to the long lost love that once made me light as feather now harks upon an anchor in a deep crevasse. With every tug, an effort to sail off smoothly as once before. All for a simple misjudged moment of delay. All that she ever expected was an assurance that she was loved for.
All that’s history now; Things that passed in the play of time has passed once and for all eternity. That moment and that time would never be a part of our lives ever again. Not just in love, but in all circumstances of our living. Through the hours spent in me trying to express these feelings; A thought seemed to emerge. A thought about the power bestowed upon us, the power to write and the power to read. In all chaos, this strange sensation of being able to comprehend a written story and to have been able to connect them with the emotions therein and most of all being able to do them in our sub-conscience terrifies me and my thoughts are often that it’s but a strange euphemism that we are able to write and read.