No matter how close you consider someone, they are never truly yours. No one is. People weave stories, fabricate realities.
That’s why literature was born. One of its great themes is love, a subject humans obsess over endlessly.
Other creatures don’t indulge in such narratives. Like us, they feel hunger, pain, joy, sorrow. But they don’t write their emotions down. If leaves could hold writing, forests would overflow with unwritten books. Imagine a bird filling jackfruit leaves with sorrowful verses, a tree draped in poetry.
Humans are complex beings. You deeply love someone yet cannot share the whole truth. Half-truths shape relationships, and neither side understands why honesty is impossible.
Two uncertainties remain bound by an inexplicable thread – with no gain, no future, no conclusion. Yet this very incompleteness gives birth to literature, music and art. In art, even lies become beautiful. And while emotions rest upon illusions, the tears and laughter they inspire remain undeniably real.
Our emotions set us apart from other creatures and drive us forward. Yet these very emotions often lead us into the deepest troubles.
More by Nahar Trina
Social Sadism: A Modern Plague
Be First to Comment