Outsider… Final
Romantic Madness of Nature and Art … In a dare-desire of measuring the height of precipitous cliffs of experiences, along with the chainless episodes of expressions, I turn out to be a rebel to myself in every moment. Advocating on the appeal of my being the most miserable one, I want to be adjudged the happiest one among the maddening crowd. This is an absolute demand of my conscience. Myself tuned in to the lyrical notation of death, my mourning song is the music of my life. I am a poet of the body, and I am the poet of the soul, The pleasure of heaven with me and the pains of heaven with me. – Walt Whitman My beloved expression! Sometimes I collide with my own flashbacks and nearly explode. But even in a time of obscurity and oblivion my conscience remains my nearest relative. Only after that comes other relations and turn loving. Gradually, gladness of creation and glow of beauty spread in the face. Life seems grand but in the maxim of impulse, hatred and revenge like informalities, the entire world turns out to be stranger, all the possible well-wishers and lovers of mine are discarded quietly. Everyone seems stranger. However, minimum human necessities are related to informalities rather than formalities, but when it comes to experience the joys of living without editing the life, maximum human necessities tend to believe in formalities. Lets say, when time steals you, it would be difficult to love life without formalities. In this formal practice a man who is busy in judging other forget to judge himself.
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