Aren't we just the perpetual anagrams of the greater things. Great things which we had dreamed every single day. The blatant philosophy we preached and was preached. Don't get me wrong, for we were the philosophers and the students. While a few stories had been inspiring, Isn't it all a little too serene, unreal? Their stories, their life. This life. "Life is beautiful" they said. I struggled to understand what beautiful meant, every single day.
What does it mean anyway ? I'll define when I find it. But you, yes you reading this charades of fragmented words, meaningless, pointless abstractions , tell me how beautiful is your life? Don't tell me in quantity. Don't give a number to it. Don't materialize it, but tell in a way you see it, be the guide, and may be, may be I would understand something, someday. Do you think I won't understand ? Probably you are right. I'm nearly the quarter century and still lost. What will I understand right? They said you are young, you should be living your life. I never understood what " living a life" meant. Is it the happiness, is it the drive for passion, is it the fight? What is living a life, really?
Anagrams! The fragments of moments as the clock turns the seconds into years. Between understanding what we need and what we want to do, life passed by, slowly, meticulously, shredding the anagrams of so called life.