“We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.”
– Dead Poets Society
When I see humans in a larger perspective, as if a painting of every human being on a canvass called life, I see the silent rumbling of streams of paint called feelings. Profusion of paint called emotion. As if a web binding the whole society together. As if connecting every heart however distant together. Through this fervor that rests deep in our hearts, that gives the human heart it’s peculiarity, that which makes us cry or laugh, that which sprouts the heart to life what is otherwise a callous and lifeless rock, I sometimes catch myself wondering in awe, trying to decipher what this magic is in spite of knowing there is no answer to it. In this stupidity of mine, I try to find warmth; I try to find solace in its pointlessness. Maybe that’s what it is all about – The fine vagueness of our heart that lets the beauty all around seep.