Women's beauty in the name of living.


The meaning of a word ' Friendship' for some to speak, some to write, some to imagine and some others to keep preserved inside the heart.  We do employ the word in one or the other sense. As far as preserving it is concerned, it is altogether different which when we select.

Perhaps there is no joy but greater pain. My life is the reality. And now I feel that I will escape far away in the same way from where the definite going of life ends. Sometimes I feel like completely destroying the incoherence of life, this selfish environment and this self seeing mind once and for all with force and cry bitterly, but I am powerless not only in my practice but also in my thought. "Success is not static. What makes you to feel proud of the thing is? As joy and sorrow are momentary so as respect and disrespect keep no meaning in the long run so is the world where nothing is kept especially for your poems". My friend, told me recently.

'Yes, after my death, my feelings would keep no meaning for me. What I realize is that we can’t take feelings in an easy manner. It is our life is nothing but the continuous process of living". I also told my friend. "Why do we live in our time? We must make able ourselves to survive in literature.' he told me further "We can't uplift ourselves beyond the definition of  friendship. How difficult it is to lead a life. To write a life in a single word reserves no meaning unless hearts tie in a life”. I told him.

The sun was above the roof. Life is worship. It provides pleasure to me. How can you prove yourself without overcoming the difficulties? ‘Life that begins from touch and makes a way into the heart is really a beautiful matter in my life. These modern times of motor vehicles constantly mock at me. Crowds of painful voices mock at me from the sides of the streets. I continue writing and I am constantly fateful to search the meaning of my life on the walls, statues, banners and crowds. May be, it's my own weakness to let hatred grow towards myself. Well, yes, it may be my weakness to find its objective and its goal. I am now like a crow looking through the thick fog, I know my friend had said that the meaning of the word 'love' in life are created not like any other word just to write, read and speak.

 My days slip by while I am in this very room just like that. I have not been able to do any remarkable job except repeatedly opening and re writing my short stories and poems. Everywhere there is absence of time. Although I know that these youthful days are for creating something, to think something new and to make one active to achieve immortality. Why and how I am in this turning point and constantly away from outside life and headed towards thoughtfulness I don't understand. There is no future of physical existence. There is no story of just living. Life is translated into small stories. 

My writing cannot believe it at all that I can Keep my life distance and stop writing. How long can I live this life and of imagination? These days I have begun to develop a kind life even with the shadows of people. I am really afraid of selfish and ungrateful attitudes of people. Everywhere I see minds inspired by selfish interactions, covetousness in the eyes, failure and tragedy. What a picture of the creation by the great painter!

Those were important days when I spent long periods mostly talking on such struggles and problems. I made changes relevant and problem clear all at once in a few words in my life. I lost myself trying to bring together the words of love and the debate between my loves used to be the life problem. And till late evening I remained sad within myself and wrote story of life. In many parallel turnings of life, I wrote several of stories, tore them, burnt them and threw them carelessly away. There too life was not properly represented in that way as well. There too life has been hopeless, sad and scattered. Not to be able to write anything about myself, about life, kindness, forgiveness, relationship, love and friendship and to get a look within incoherence has made me nowadays full of fear that the talk of our life is nothing but scratching my own wound.

In order to be able to write a living life, I do require power, a power which is endless like my complete story and in the darkness. I will remain conscious with my power of being able to write life. How am I to write a true story of life? In my eyes too there are dreams like a flower with me. I look at the sky and see it covered with thick clouds all over. I know, my journey of literature is definite, into a direction journey. I am busy in search of equality of life   even when there is mostly inequality in us, where I could write the story of another life of women's beauty in the name of living.

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