The origin always being the truth

I think people go poetic when they need their readers to be of the category that is situated between the understanding ones and the misunderstanding ones. And I think people go into prose when they need their readers to be from both the understanding ones or the misunderstanding ones but not from the middle.



Poetry tries to compress us to a subtle moment and expects us to take the risk of getting that lightning strike on our stark dark heads. And Prose is like rain, sometimes the rain falls on the fertile plains and sometimes on the rocks. "Out of poetry comes a Prose of thoughts and out of Prose comes a poetry of thoughts." Ah, this line sounds good.



Now to talk about truth and fiction. I think fiction is a reflection of the truth. I see it that fiction can be divided into two: stupid fiction and wise fiction. Stupid fiction is that which is stupid. Yeah, that's how stupid it's definition can get. An example for stupid fiction to me is, when a fiction tries to portray an inner truth that is actually false. Stupid fiction is a product of an unconscious mind. Wise fiction on the other hand, is that which comes from a mind that is of a higher conscious level like the parables of Jesus, the works of Ved Vyas, Valmiki.



And now to add more on that, fiction whether it's stupid or wise, its existence is always true. The very fact that this fiction exists gives it the element of truth. If I say that "I have twenty heads on my head". That's fiction alright, but the existence of the statement is very much true. Fiction thrives on the fact that existence is a truth. The fiction is untrue but the existence of the fiction is true, and can be considered wise, if the inner idea being projected through it is a great truth.



And with the origin always being the truth, it's up to us to decipher out the wisdom from the total setup, to collect the honey from the garden. Fiction is indeed a necessity to convey an idea, its the means to an end. The end being the truth.



Some selected quotes:



“The reason truth is stranger than fiction is that truth has a better author.”





“To me a story is true not because it happened, but because it happens to make sense.”





“Emotional truths can sometimes be conveyed more effectively, more compellingly, through fiction.”

The calling

There was once this little girl, she saw a little flower, she went near it and she spotted a feeling within her….was it for the perfume of the flower? Was it for the angel right beside her? Was it that she realized that she was not calling TheGod when she was calling "TheGod"! TheGod was so beautiful in her idea, so compassionate, that she knew that if she had truly called for the uncalled Wahid one, definitely, she would be free from fear. 

And so she felt that feeling come across her…but to feel the feeling she had to first call TheGod, but to call TheGod she had to first feel the feeling….she did not stop calling! She did not stop feeling. Numb not even to a stone. For numbness too was a feeling.

And this breeze brushed over her hidden hair, and she smiled at the cloud that was finding its way back to the south East ocean, and in and behind a bush was a little street boy, and he smiled a smile as he approached her, pointing to her lunch box. She opened her box and let the boy have a day. The boy was satisfied for once and for everyday same time wanted more, the girl was happy to serve but afraid to serve the boy forever, for she was afraid for her mind was in the future, she thought that for the boy's desire she would not last forever, so afraid to love in the moment, and with hiccups the boy was strained.

One day, the boy took a vacation, a vacation to the Himalayas, where every mountain rise was a Prophet wise. Be it, the boy climbed each in his own way, spotted by the angels, laughed at by the djinns and howled at by the Iblis wing beats. Danger lurked! The boy unafraid. He was well fed. Come what may! He entered a house, a house that limped at the peak of a mountain, and to find the same girl in it and again in pain, but this time it was he who had something to give, and so in he came, and in came the gift, a little puppy wagging its tail.

Not afraid at all, she cuddled the little puppy one! And he smiled again!