The Journey Begins

There is no truth.

Suddenness of incidences vaguely leave impressions on mind.

I was reading a storybook. I was seating beside a window. The curtain was drawn back and the world outside was glistening in the mid-april sun. Yes, I was
reading a book. I don't remember the title or the authors name. I think it was about love. And life. The language was lucid and the words knew their way to the
readers heart. I was reading slowly. Like taking a warm cup of coffee in a chilly winter morning. I wasn't reading to finish it, I was reading to detain the end. That
is one distinction between love and knowledge.

The story went on. climbed mountains and swam rivers and digged deep in mines to bring me the evidence of true love. Somewhere in the future, someone was
waiting to say the exact same things to me. "Love exists, I'll prove it to you!!" was what she'll tell me. And she will prove it in a language of pain. And the story
will go on.

I was convinced that it is the truth. Love is truth. But what is love? I looked around, at my room, at the mirror, outside the room into the streets.
Couldn't find anything similar to the story I just read. But the story seemed true enough and the things could have happened to me. But it didn't, at least at that time.
I decided to search for it thoroughly enough.

The book was lying open on the windowsill. The wind came. The pages skipped in the wind, settled, again skipped and the story went on. It'll not stop at the geometric
boundary of the book. Another book will come, then another. movies will come one after another. Poetry, cult literature, masterpieces and award-winners. knowledge
will engross my mind and a placid mist will veil the truth, if there were any.

But then I'll discover, may be in a coffee shop, or a train compartment or in some other place. The place is not really important. And neither is time. The ultimate truth
is that there is no truth. Life is accumulation of impressions. The grim world of pain and disbelief comes from our extreme strongrootedness in this world, our immense
attachment to everything.

Why do we live then?

It's like a movie. Completely fictitious. Still in itself it has a "reality" attached to it. It claims authenticity and claims it in a convincing fashion so that for the time being we assume
it is real. Rather we want to assume it's reality. That's why we watch movies, isn't it? It's same with life, I thought, because the illusions come one after another like bubbles and
foolishly claim permanence and in the next instant the bubble isn't there.

But we must realize that our "rationality" is also a part of that illusion. The harder we try to disentangle ourselves from the "reality" the more we get intertwined with illusion. Because that conscious effort is also connected to my "self" which is completely fictitious.

To live or to leave? whether to stop this grand movie show at once or to play our parts as a puppet? First point is what the criterion is. No rational gain can guide us to the answer even if there is an answer. Life it seems is like a game which continues until the player quits. To stop is to take the easier option, kneeling before the whims of unknown. But to keep on playing, weathering all pain,grief and despair,gives sense of victory out of which manifests sense of love!!!