Fiction is what let’s you tell, abuse, shout, confess, accept without having to do any of these. It is explicit. It is bold and brave. It is the best form of audacity. And yet it is in some small way cowardice. Cowardice because it is, at times, painful to put thousands of thoughts together and pack them in a story as fiction and yet that is all one can do. That is the second method. One never tells that one has told something but there is always this satisfaction of having told it. And what’s great is that it reaches to someone who wanted it, even if it is far from reaching those who didn’t want it. One who seeks, will find. That is all about this kind of communication. If one does not, one does not deserve or care enough to know it. But one who does, that’s all that matters. Nothing else does. One has to be vexed and curious to know or find something that one wants.
Then there are accidents and someone reads it without intention or wish. But to find it and understand it is beyond this. Beyond any accidents, even though it looks so. Always, always understand that nothing is understood without a reason. There will be, if not an existing one, a reason that is a result of the understanding There’s no excuse to wisdom. There’s nothing that one rambles. It is always, always a byproduct of what you’re made of.


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