So, after a long time, I have no idea how much long time (in terms of months or years or so…) but it seems to me that I am writing about myself after a decade.
However, if you have got a question to me like- “what has made you, to write about yourself now?!...”
Well… it is really a big question… any answer of this question in the first place is- “I just want to scream out loud, but I cannot at all.” Perhaps someone has stuffed a cloth in my mouth and my voice has blocked somewhere inside my throat.
However, there is a cliché in the life of any random person that they must find a reason to console themselves, to hide their mistake (s)… and certainly, they will do this with full confidence. It is awful, but somewhat required… you must be wondering that I ‘m going to support a wrong cause. But a big but…! It doesn’t hurt anyone unless you do it in public and also if you take it positively.
Anyways, recently I have finished reading a book- this book is about an author who is roaming around different countries and she is trying to forget her terrible divorce cum relationships, to learn a language that she loves more than her mother tongue, the existence of supreme God etc.
I think the name of the book is not required to mention here as I am not supposed to write a review for this book. I think you will not mind this.
However, it still doesn’t make any sense to anyone to sit down to review their past and all..?!?!
Yes..! Absolutely! You know the way she has written in her book better say how she has expressed herself is what I have done the same already; many years back during my teen age when most of kids cum soon to become as grown adult(s) were preparing for their future; either they were preparing for competitive exam or struggling to get a good college or institute; I had been lost in my secret diary aka personal diary- I was writing endlessly… better say I was screaming /bleeding in my untold painful emotions every night/day silently in my loving diary. It was my melancholy and I was not doing what I was expected to behave; well it has enough. I can’t let myself to visit those daunting days again.
Even I have dumped that loving diary somewhere I don’t know myself. This diary is one my dearest part of my life. After all, It carried the burden of my melancholy ever very faithfully.
Still past is running with us every second; each passing second is converting into the past.
And in the present, I am again making mistakes and creating a new past. But somehow, I don’t feel obliged to keep this beast in the cage of my small heart. I have learnt to make these agonies free from myself, better say I have become the master in this awful art.
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