I have dark caverns of memories in my mind or wherever it is that memory resides in us. I am afraid to knock at the gates of these hidden regions. Most of the time I feel we are afraid of ourselves. All our fears, our inner contempt, our anger is in essence towards our own being, and I claim no exception to this rule. I nurse a secret inner fear of what lies beneath the person that I am; can I with certainty pronounce myself to be me? Can I accept myself as I am in stark and harsh light of reality? what do I know of such matters for much is in realm of the mists.
I cannot tell stories. I can't sing songs of beauty and truth. I have no message to give out gleamed from the experiences of my life, hence penning down a memoir is out of reach for me. Yet I yearn to write a book. What shape that book would take is a question that remains unanswered. I am in love with act of reading. And I do want to read all the books that exist now in the universe, as well as , the ones that will eventually come to be written when I am long gone. Perhaps, the book that I am destined to write has already been written by me in some future time, and at this moment swaying in some unreachable point in the universe. Or maybe, it is not only written but published and well received by the readers in a parallel universe.
Ahhhh, to be separated by universes. Maybe I am but a character in a book that I have written and have no real existence? for who can with certitude claim to know that what he takes as reality is nothing but a dream?
Universe, life, death - are complex things. And everything that is in it are complicated. In my book - that may exist or will exist, or may not ever exist, all possibilities are there to ponder - I want to take up the task of trying to fathom the fathomless uncertainties that abound us and around us. The book is there; that I am sure about.
Can I write it in my present reality or will I come across it ever?
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