As I walk with a gorgeous book to board another metro to work, I wonder "What do people think of this book when they go by the name? She looks so engrossed in the book, oblivious to conversations around her; it’s been a while I saw someone with a book and a title never heard of!" These thoughts of mine quickly rest in peace as the words by De Botton melt my heart like a solid mass of chocolate losing its existence with every stroke of heat. As I begin to break the cubed pieces of mine, a rich liquid begins to form, leaving an aroma of memories fused with a flux of feelings and thoughts which taste like sea salt.
How often do you find a book, a comfort where every single word resonates and strikes the chords of your heart, which once belonged to someone else. The guitar lies in the corner now, feeling useless, only to be awakened by De Botton, now and then. Waking up from slumber, the music formed by the chords is disturbing and soothing all at once. There are shrieks, soft strumming, and sometimes a senseless noise.
Off late words feel alien and familiar to me. They carry the surreal and the mundane and mould themselves in a vague form. And sometimes they are so raw and blunt, it's like a woodcutter chopping an arm of a tree, ruthlessly ,not knowing it breathes and lives, in its silent existence.
There's nothing more to say or write. "The stories we tell are always too simple. how much of mobility and inconstancy of my emotions can sentences carry"? For now, Alain De Botton heard me in my silence.
P.S: Line in italics by Alain De Botton in “Essays in Love”.