To think that existence is human-centric is to think that every human experience of the past and present, of the living and the dead can add up to give an account of existence. This perhaps is the reason for all humanity’s discontentment, delusion, and greed, as we become restless with our own experience, doubtful of its truthfulness, and diverge to imitate, capture, and conform to experiences that aren’t ours.

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शीर्षक - संतुलन

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What you have and what you are on the verge of having. What you want and what you are on the verge of wanting. What you have let go and what you are on the verge of letting go - between them are the notes and steps, the gentle and ruthless song, the sobre and mad dance of art.

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A wholehearted celebration of human fallibility is a privilege not even love has savored, for it is defeated by the desire for a closed door, an open window, a patch of sky, and a legend, every time it gets agonisingly close.

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There is pleasure, there is pain, and then there is profundity - exasperating the human spirit, turning it impassive to the wreckage and opulence of reality, and making it commit to an impersonal and yet deeply intimate voyage - with just a promise of truth.

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Philosophical angst, unlike other angsts, is a stretch of time where talking to oneself can get one closest to the curtain, which is a foot away from a theatre full of humanity.

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The birth and sustenance of the ultimate human space is never realized through the singularity of freedom, but only through a few or many distinctive freedoms getting familiar with one another in the friendliest or strangest of environments, to the extent of attaining a certain resemblance.

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I have known beautiful people and the heart of their terribly inconsistent lives. Neither their ascent nor their downfall has been consistent enough, to let them become oblivious or estranged. They have risen with the inspired and fallen with the lost, so selflessly, so endearingly and so entirely.  

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Living for luxury is a brute order of life which deceitfully disrupts the other evolving orders and sabotages their identities. It disrupts the order of an altruistic living by the idea of charity, and the order of an artistic living by the idea of eminence.

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Poets, Romantics, and Fantasists take refuge in the scent of a rose out of poise, and put a rose on their chest out of snobbery, but thinkers tell the story of a rose's petals, of its dampened skins, of everything beneath and except the scent.

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