The Night Is More Beautiful

Moon makes faces at me for I insult it by thinking of someone else. I never thought that Moon could be this possessive. I think the phrase, “Shoot for the Moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land amongst the stars.” is funny for Moon is too possessive to let the stars have you but don’t plan on shooting yourself to the Moon; I have heard it is quite far away.

Precisely this notion, this idea of thought, this despairing vision stops us from shooting for the Moon or for the stars, for that matter. Distance is an illusion of mind, have you ever travelled in a desert? Don’t you see how never-ending it seems, don’t you feel it in your bones? The further you aim, the further you fall. Literally fall.

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The Dawn

“Is life the same for you?” she asked the cat who had wandered to her abode, now eating on that day’s leftovers. It looked at her, at first wary, then in a meek voice asked for more. Aria threw the last piece of bread with no regrets, for she was old and worn and needed little food. For this little cat, the world consists of food and survival. There is no love in its glance, no passion, no anger, just desire. She had seen the same look in many human eyes, even in her own when she glanced at herself in the mirror.

The cat now, disinterested in Aria, looked for someplace else in hopes to find some element of interest. It bounded off after the poor squirrel who had the misfortune of being sighted by the sharp eyes of the little cat. Aria watched as the little cat played with her prey, so treacherous its game, never letting the poor squirrel go…

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Prologue

Arlo could no longer see, the darkness had blended in so well; it seemed to him that only darkness was devoid of fragility, that only darkness had the solidity of a change-bringer. A soft whisper of movement slowed him to a stop, as a voice uttered a single word, “We.” But then it came from another and another and soon everywhere there was an echo, an echo which shook the heart, which moved mountains, which stilled the storms. It was an echo of creation, of the beginning and the ending, of the world and the universe. It was the voice of the Living.

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The Storm and the Echoes

The storm comes with the slightest of warnings; first comes the Whisper, caressing and lovely, then comes the Wind, cold and rough, and at last the Storm awakens…

Everything leaves an echo as it creates a motion, from a heart to a soul to a body and eventually to the world. What echo leaves behind a stone…

When a heart beats, it leaves an echo and that echo leaves yet another echo and so forth this deep chain continues, ever changing and ever-lasting. Every person who enters a life, every consciousness that…

To everything there is a balance, to everything there is a contradiction. This world is a paradox, to the True Reason there is always the False One and to a sound there is always silence. Paradox upon paradox upon…

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Path

Each one of us passes through these situations however some of us win, they are victors, and they succeed not because they try to make a difference but because they are destined to. Destiny is like a child born in the middle of World War II in a small town being crushed to the ground, his mother swallowed by the inevitable while the fragile wins his life. We do say that we create our destiny but it is always there waiting for us to embrace it through a set of actions that we will make. Our every choice is towards it, no matter how much despairing or hopeful, great or petty it maybe.

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Of Old Books & Strangers

There is just something about a battered old book that is irresistible. There is a distinct scent that clings to it. It is a scent that makes you think of the good old days. It is a scent that makes you feel lonely. It is a scent that arouses memories. It is a scent that arouses the wanderlust in you. It is a scent that makes you want to at once run wildly and curl up around a warm fire with a cup of hot tea. It is a scent that ah! cannot be described. It can only be felt. It is a shot of pure adrenaline. It is a touch of euphoria. It is confusion. It is…

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Truth Is…Truth

Nothing is true. Everything, every glimpse, holds falsity. The world, its peoples, even life itself submits to imitation. Why? Truth seems so vacant, its features so welcoming, its voice so enchanting yet all things mock and taunt this deep beauty, staining it, making it impure until even truth’s beautiful form becomes a lie…

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The Twilight Tree

The tree flinched as a cloud of bats crashed against him, startling him. He abhorred bats and everything of night’s kingdom. The nights were always lonely; he could never hear the songs or witness small fights. There was no hustle and bustle, no light just silence and stars in the dark sky witnessing his fear, never speaking, never moving. Night became worse with each minute, darkness darkened, silence increased and his fear heightened. Cold breeze whispered like a ghost in his ear and pale shadows played everywhere in his sight. How could he not be scared?

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