In a twist and turn of events we always find ourselves on the exact conjecture from where we left. How is it that there’s nothing along the way that grabs our attention and binds us to them?
After a turmoil of a month, here I am pouring my heart out again, I believe I couldn’t write not because I didn’t want to, it was because I had so many emotions pouring out that I didn’t know which one to choose.
There’s always a fascination towards home or being homebound, but are we ever home? Is it a place where we wish to be? It’s such a superfluous concept that the ideas coming out of home are always right, what of they are not? Are we brave enough to confront ideologies on which practically our entire life might have been projected? Or we’d just be in war with our inner selves and pretend all is fine in the world.
In a war between our own selves, spaces and our identities would it ever be justified to be as transparent as we wish to be? Or it would be like another dinner table conversation where no one would speak what’s in their heads just to avoid conflicts, and carry on with life…