To reach out, I reach within.

If words are the assets of a free mind, why is it that we often find ourselves trapped within the boundaries they offer? In an earlier post, I had spoken about how much one should appreciate silence, and agreed, nothing would probably describe anything better than complete silence, and a quiet moment of understanding. Yet, this silence, seems too difficult to adjust to. The basic desire of a human is to communicate. To listen, hear, speak, and share. But do we really need to define everything?

Imagine a house on a far away land. A place that touches the skies, reaching out to the clouds. Lush green grass all around. A cool, gentle breeze surrounding the tiny cottage, with the hum of a local brook meandering nearby.

I'm not very good with imagery. My literature isn't as great as many people whom I know of. But my views, they are precious to me. The only support that I could hold onto if everything else seems to haze away. This is why I fear criticism. If I am capable of adjusting with any sort of a view that might come across me, I really hope, that people accept, even if they don't agree - to whatever I believe in.

I just long for my imaginations to become a reality. If only one could share the marvels that one thinks of, with others, in the exact same way they seem to reach into the empty voids of ones mind, filling them up with colours the the true eye could never visualise.

Back to the cottage. That place would be perfect. A moment  frozen in time, for eternity. I didn't choose a beach, an island, or another fancy place. This little cottage, atop a silent hill, some how captured my mind.

Now imagine yourself living in such a place. Alone. Not a single person with whom you could share your words, or your silence. Somehow, this forces me to believe that, the one thing, more important, than even sharing your views, is the mere company of another living being. 

But I savour solitude. The sly single digit upon that clock mocks me. It's way past midnight, and I have only solitude as my company right now. I cherish it. It's one of those few things I appreciate in life. Some time reserved for me and me only. Where I can lock myself away from the world and pen down my feelings unafraid of any sort of criticism.

The words trapped in me, often scream. Perhaps everyone feels so. I don't run away from my own thoughts though. I see to it, that they meet what they seek. But I wonder, if the only way to do so, is by surrounding myself with the people I care about. Words fail when ideals differ. Silence fails when the understanding is low. Perhaps laughter, happiness, or even sadness, binds us all. 

There is no place for masks. But they inevitably reach out, covering my face when I'm afraid to hurt anybody, or to show someone that I've been hurt. As long as it doesn't harm anyone though, they should be fine. Perhaps giving, without hoping to get anything in return is the only way by which one can live in the world outside. 

That world outside, it doesn't make sense to me. Broken people, breaking others, and them breaking others, and so forth. I remember the time I was plainly shocked by an act of a close friend. A sinful act, for that time I was a child. "Why would anyone want to be the bad guy?" I remember, asking another friend. 

With time, I learned that both the bad, and the good were... Almost the same. The one's screaming about the goodness, made the bad visible. All this, was just, a game of words. Word play, as one might call it.

That cottage on that hill? It's still there. It's quiet and, one could get all the solitude he or she ever desired while living there. Even though an optimist, the reality of this world saddens me. I may appreciate the good - the bad - both, as equal necessities required for this world to flow forward, but nevertheless, the sight of any helpless person discourages me. 

Illness. Old age. Death. Misundestandings. Fights. Hunger. Disease. Does this world really need them? It doesn't. And me, I'm heartless. Looking at it all as if it were all science. Trying not to concern myself. Trying to understand relations as if they were some sort of a mathematical equation. I think far too much to do me any good. But as I fear, I think far too much, for me to be able to do any good to this world.

I'm tired of trying to figuring things out - for now. Thoughts not acted upon are meaningless. Aren't they? If lost, never to be found again.

I don't want to support the good, or the bad, or anything for that matter. I just want people to realise, that they are alive. They have a heart, heartbeats, and for as long as they can breath, nothing can really harm them. 

Oh how I wish to tell them all about how easy this life really is. But explaining it is such a task! Pretty sure most don't even want me to hear me out. And no, I would't want to be a burden. Who would want to be one? My words fail. My silence fails. And I seek solitude again. A place somewhere, in my mind, on that cottage, with the cool breeze that would speak to me, understanding me completely. Perfectly. And I shall write, finally, allowing my views to take control, and not fear.