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A sullen twilight sun stares at me through the window of my room. Shadows play, light interspersed. The cup of coffee wasting its life away to fumes. Everything goes cold in the end and yet nothing seems to stop.
Sometimes I feel ‘time’ can be looked at in two ways. The one in which it flows indifferent to what happens in its domain and the one where I feel it’s a ‘static something’ through which we flow instead. There are so many viewpoints in life, so many different angles and perspectives that at times all we have is a conundrum. A sweet conundrum. A chaos wherein we occasionally shift from one perspective to another to settle for the one that best approximates our present confrontations. Much like a bee hopping from flower to flower holding each flower as true as any other till it gets its nectar.
Then what is the real truth? Or rather, which one is the real truth? And what is the basis of the entire existence? May be it’s the flower that we just left, may be it’s the flower that we are are on or may be it’s that far away flower that is still lying in neglect, waiting to be discovered. But who will ever know it, even if they find it. For truth, the way it is, carries no identifiers. May be that’s why it is said that God is anonymous.
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