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”.
