I wonder if somehow I have materialized in the 21st century by an accident of nature, and in actuality I was supposed to be born in the 18th or the 19th century? Am I a hundred years too late? Is my soul all bewildered at being here in this fast and furious world, and yearns for the peace and quite of an earlier time? Am I looking for a world still wondrous at its mysteries? where from the New-World to the heart of Africa were still uncharted areas, full of intrigue, suspense and god knows what unnameable dangers? Am I thirsty for that spirit of adventure so salient in every chronicle of those times? the long arduous voyages on the sea, where true character of men was made to test? the unknown areas of the nether world, South Africa and South America where Europeans were beginning to travel to so they could be mapped.
The world held secrets. It was full of excitement and the spirit of getting to know something unknown before - a time ripe for discovery. How would it have felt living in a world so antiquated, so far back, where of course there was no electricity, or running water and most diseases meant sure death. Is this some fascination, some kind of a thrall of romantic notions of an otherwise time of upheaval and war? I don't know. All I know is when I read adventure novels set in times other than ours, I feel I'm transported to some other time, where virtues like, dignity, courage, truth, and resilience mattered. Where conversation meant more than a 'chat' where love did not alter with every passage of the moon.
Such a world had its spirit intact, it was a less maligned and less raped world, with its energy and vitality there for people to get inspired and rejuvenated by... I want such a world, where the real matters and the unreal, the superficial and the material has no place.
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