From each letter of your unsaid words trickles a sense of disillusionment, as if each letter, if it could fly and reach me over a millisecond, it would sit on my phone screen and peep into my eyes to check if I am really not deceiving you. {But I am not.} And the other day your letter asked, in a way of complaining, 'you don't text anymore',
I just said, 'I don't.
Because
I
Write
To
You
In
Different
Way.'
Two hours. Two long. Too much. Yet too less if I sit by a half-closed window and sun rays tickle my eyes play with my hairs and kiss my lips. Too less to thank God for all good he did. Too less to observe the life as it flows. Too less to love each moment as it passes by. We run and run whole life and it is passed in a twinkling of an eye but our soul carries the imprints for eternity. The Soul was an empty vessel when it began its journey but the time allowed Soul to fill itself with pretty flowers, beads, gems and magnificent things. Whole life we keep on fulfilling the needs of body and neglect our soul. Wouldn't it be wonderful to pause for some minutes and give sometime to our Soul. To observe the cycle of universe and feel yourself a part of it. To rise above the petty problems of the day and feel the magnificence of Being. To fly with imagination to the unknown worlds of fairies, kabilas, gypsies, forests, mountains, ocean. To let the...
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