Good Reads

Sharing this short passage on Good Reads that I really like. I like how nicely apt this is written. 

"Everything around is alive that morning. Young leaves, tender in texture are aglow under the Sun. Water Lilies, chrysanthemums, Bougainvilleas, Hibiscus, and flowers of exquisite varieties are blooming recklessly. There is inherent beauty in wilderness, in life that is not moulded, life that lives naturally without ideas and concepts. There are dragonflies of varied kinds, humming bees, birds calling their mates. That premises is alive and one is alive with them.

On an edge of a young leaf there stood a dragonfly utterly still. It is so fragile and weightless; it has become part of the leaf. One looked at the leaf and it was there, that nameless which man has sought in holy places, books. Mind isn’t capable of containing it yet, it was there around and one could almost touch it, yet one is hesitant.

That evening as one is walking among the chattering crowd and traffic noise, spontaneously one’s mind was still. The cool breeze might have brought that stillness. Among crowd one sensed the presence of that. It was there around whole day.
Why is there enormous sorrow in this world? Why does man live in thousand yesterdays? Why does he mould himself according to a formula, idea, opinion? Why is it difficult to be alive without fears, agonies, hopes, longing for companionship? The Pleasure of companionship with its memories and projected ideas, is that Love? One seems incapable of receiving love and hence one would never talk what Love is.

As one walked by, one saw a dead butterfly, orange in colour with black spots in the middle forming a pattern in the middle of wings. Can one die like that butterfly without a fuss to one’s everything: to accumulated memories, to wounds, to scars? Can one die to thousand yesterdays and million tomorrows as naturally as a leaf falling from its parent? Can one drop everything what one has accumulated like a snake shedding its skin, like a tree in autumn sheds every leaf and stands naked across the evening sky, aloof and withdrawn?
Can one stand, alone without a scar, fear and hope? It is there, that strange nameless around as one writes."