For long has man compared life to a highway. Poems, plays, movies aplenty have nurtured this concept and bred new ideas into generations of successive artists. Life is a highway. But as every unending journey has milestones, these routes also have an important ingredient; much less visible than the milestones, the by-lanes.
While few people run out of gas and give up, nearly everyone wants this journey to be long until the automobile itself wears out. Rarely though do we walk out of our vehicles when by the highway, narrow lanes show up. Each lane runs roughly a few kilometres and then either finishes abruptly or leads us back to the highway. The unending road again becomes the present, the reality. The by-lanes, the reflections of history, survive only as interpretations.
How ironic it is that every single reality ends up as a slave to Interpretations! Yet, truth is what we are obsessed about.
What seems inevitable thus, is your interpretation of me. Hence I become an outsider to myself. An autobiography is of no use. All my traits: 'honesty', 'hard work', 'good-looking' , 'intelligent', 'sensitive', 'immature', 'high-nosed', 'straight-forward', whatever else there is/was are your reflections through me. You have learnt your words and your intellect searches for the right body to fit them in.
So whether I call myself moral and sensible or dim-witted and driven, it hardly matters to you readers. Everything is judged according to your prejudices.
I, basically am a story teller. I create worlds every moment and diffuse them within you.
Some stories are believable, some are apparently larger than life. But whatever, stories are stories. You lend your eyes and ears at your own risk.
So when the by-lanes, neglected through an entire lifetime are rarely recalled by the travelers (if at all), the tyres might come to a halt. Introspection might be in order. Or, there might be enough gas to keep approaching the horizon.
While few people run out of gas and give up, nearly everyone wants this journey to be long until the automobile itself wears out. Rarely though do we walk out of our vehicles when by the highway, narrow lanes show up. Each lane runs roughly a few kilometres and then either finishes abruptly or leads us back to the highway. The unending road again becomes the present, the reality. The by-lanes, the reflections of history, survive only as interpretations.
How ironic it is that every single reality ends up as a slave to Interpretations! Yet, truth is what we are obsessed about.
What seems inevitable thus, is your interpretation of me. Hence I become an outsider to myself. An autobiography is of no use. All my traits: 'honesty', 'hard work', 'good-looking' , 'intelligent', 'sensitive', 'immature', 'high-nosed', 'straight-forward', whatever else there is/was are your reflections through me. You have learnt your words and your intellect searches for the right body to fit them in.
So whether I call myself moral and sensible or dim-witted and driven, it hardly matters to you readers. Everything is judged according to your prejudices.
I, basically am a story teller. I create worlds every moment and diffuse them within you.
Some stories are believable, some are apparently larger than life. But whatever, stories are stories. You lend your eyes and ears at your own risk.
So when the by-lanes, neglected through an entire lifetime are rarely recalled by the travelers (if at all), the tyres might come to a halt. Introspection might be in order. Or, there might be enough gas to keep approaching the horizon.
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