Dear soul, why do you seek yourself in others,
Those imperfect perfections can't really pull your pieces.
They may try but they aren't you.
You are those last rays of sun smiling on broken window panes.
They talk of French windows, of castles and towers
Which you admire but wouldn't like to own.
You are that last ounce of pain that you carefully hide under your smile,
They talk of tattoos, they brag of fame,
Ah! bogus and baseless, your mind reports.
You pour affections day and out in their cup
And they drain it out without thinking much.
This should stop, I tell you, you need to love yourself,
For, you can't call them by your name, can you?
They may act, they may try but they can never be you
They will put on a fake reflection obscuring your vision
But, dear soul don't get deceived.
You deserve to be free, you deserve to be you and no one else!
"Read between the lines", I heard our professor say. We were in midst of a Victorian text. I looked at her point blank. She had spoken about something which I had no clue about. "Ma'am, would you please elaborate? ", I tried framing this sentence in my mind but my introverted self overpowered my inquisitive soul like everytime. I hopelessly waited for an explanation. Ma'am started explaining about how beyond the surface meaning of any written text, there lay a wide plethora of meaning which wasn't explicitly stated. She talked about finding a void between the written words and our imagination, that void which shapes our interpretation. That explanation opened doors to my perception of reading a text. It wasn't that I had never considered about the possibilities of meanings that lay coated in words until then, but, what perhaps I lacked was to look for that void where I questioned the layers of meaning, where I put myself in those layers of wo...
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