In search of the perfect partner, the heart realized that it is its own soulmate.
Life is nothing but an illusion where emotions dance on the myriad rhythm of destiny’s mocking laughter. As if, Shakespeare was a hell of a genius in calling the world, “a stage” where “all men and women are merely players.’’
Is that the greatest creation of this Universe is doomed to do- endlessly wander in the nothingness of nihilism and formulate his/her own philosophies out of the wilderness, to survive?
Is Life the Magnum Opus of some unknown Author and we are merely characters churning out our own version of realities out of the fantasies of that Author?
Or, is Life a vast canvas of a master Artist and we are just fragments of the Artist’s imagination, trying to squeeze a little hue out of the strokes of the brush, just to fill some colours in our otherwise, non-existent existence?
“Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
No, I am not a nihilist. Nor am I a super-optimist. I am just a non-entity, a witness, if you may say, trying to answer the questions of my pen.