Life, they say, is not a bed of roses. For the longest time, I have dismissed this as pure nonsense. But with time and age, I guess, we realize that everything, in its own respect, has some implication, significance and purpose. I’d still, nevertheless, hold on to say that ‘life is in fact, a bed of roses’ – for after all, we must understand that roses too, have thorns.
This element called ‘profundity’ is somehow unconsciously installed in us, though not of our own accord or free will. All of a sudden, distant, disconnected and independent, it seems particularly wrong.
It is the heart, longing to liberate itself from the burden of having to be the soul secret keeper and the frustration and chagrin of the rest of our person from the general course of life.
A perfect avenue, I've found in this, to express, communicate and convey whatever little bouts of random profoundness that comes my way and to lead your minds through the suburbs of many secrets.
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