Initially I used to find Instagram a very interactive space for reading, people talking about emotions, conversations. Not just Instagram, but Tumblr, WordPress, they were amazing spaces to discover a new person, how they thought, what they wrote- irrespective of the fact that it represented their life or not. Lately, everything I read has some kind of pain attached to it. There’s melancholy in the way things are written and sadly that is what works. I hardly find anyone writing for the pleasure of writing, what sells is what is put on paper and in thoughts. If we flip through the pages in history, humans wrote about so many things because in essence there is so much to write. Look around. Break through the melancholy because even the word life itself is full of rich colors and it has just so much to be written about and Eliot sums this thought up very beautifully,
“At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where the past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that place is in time.”