To, the corners of this world.

I hope this letter of mine finds you (and hopefully you will be in fine spirit, I am unsure of the effect the contents of this letter may have).

The human race is collectively dellusional. We collude to delude. Romanticise shortcomings. And mystify suffering. You want an example?

'Distance makes the heart grow fonder'

A warped general somewhere in the middle of the 13th century, at a campaign in some god forsaken part of this world, probably said this to a very horny soldier. And the soldier spread the word to his other friends, who would go out whoring every once in a while, when in more alive places. And they all decided that this was the way it should have been all along. 3 months away, 3 months at home. And we still suffer. Distance has elements to it. But absence is excruciating. They're not very far from each other. Like mist and marshes.

'Why do marshes always attract mist and fog? Is there a relationship between bogs and fens and vapours? Thus far and no further?'
Kiran Nagarkar,
Cuckold.

Your words and my thoughts. Mist and marshes.

Paulo Coelho was wrong. When fate plays sadist, the entire universe conspires in misleading you. I never know where I'm going, but most of the times, I do end up in mist shrouded marshes. That is when I'm going somewhere. Otherwise I'm just sitting still waiting for the mist to cover me and the ground to swallow me. Over and over again. And really the only conclusion is, that I still miss you. And when I come out of the mist, only to go back again, I realise that you are both, the mist and the light, the marsh and the soil.

"Suffer love! a good epithet!
I do suffer love indeed,
for I love thee against my will."
Benedick,
Much Ado About Nothing,
William Shakespear.

Love? Nah. Love is too hazy.

Love Always,
Rishi.