It was just a Saturday night, spent a bit unusually. I often have plans of watching movies on my laptop and just falling asleep to greet Sunday right at noon. But, something had been troubling me that night. It was some parts hunger, some illness, some disappointment. Because there is no way that everybody could please you, as the manual of mind reading is far from being scientifically accepted, I chose to ignore the disappointments that may have been accidentally caused by friends I regard as my closest. I would like to quote Anton Chekhov here,
“Medicine is my lawful wife, and literature is my mistress.When I get fed up with one, I spend the night with the other.”
That night, I was with literature. I read, I wrote. And, in the course of writing, all that had been causing me trouble, gently took a leave. I posted it online, as my blog had been bare for too long. And, I informed my loyal readers about the new addition. It was 2AM, Sunday morning, the time, known to have the power to add depth to any conversation. And, thanks to the social media, for making it easy for our generation to say things. The vulnerability of a morning this early, in preserved sanctity led to revelation of unspoken truths that had longed to be heard.A friend, with whom I would usually talk about literature and on rare occasions, about philosophy, gave an edge to my perspective on the entire idea of perception. [I had always loved talking to people about philosophy, literature, nature, and the outer space (this one is difficult)].Our conversation started with discussion on the content of my blog, it shifted to how I wanted him to put up his work on the internet, for others to read. It amused me how after months of being in the same class, and being good friends, I hadn’t figured him out. He was like a gift wrapped in infinite ribbons. Even the closest of his friends knew just a little about his truest self. I had been wanting to tell him how much his control on expression intrigued me. And, as true as I could get, I told him. Only to shift the discussion from how nobody had ever wondered before. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t known about his existence as an undeciphered code. We were on the same page. He had not been, so honestly, asked about his unheard silence on the front of self-expression and, I, had never met a person so expressive, yet not so. I am not bragging or anything, but really, it wouldn't take me more than a jiffy to look beyond all those masks people wear, to hide their vulnerabilities.This was satiety. Satisfaction of finding something that needed to be explored. Next was philosophy. Everybody thinks. Most of us are limited to the surface level. Oh! I owe it all to the time, for how deep it took us. How nature could be linked to thoughts, and eventually how thoughts brought us closer. Closer to the reality. Reality, that sounds like a conventional myth, it actually existed. There it was again, satiety. We thought alike and could reciprocate what was needed for self-discovery. At the age of 20, it is a weight heavier than what a soul can bear, but paradoxically, it made us feel light enough to glide to horizon. We can never feel the same thing as the other person perceives it. What is static is, satisfaction. That conversation was immensely so. For days to come, I got a gift to unwrap and, delightfully bathe in a pool of joy, as I did.