Whenever I read about some authors(like Neruda, Sade etc.) and why their papers are destroyed, I came to know the true meaning of freedom. Those authors who have seen what a common man can’t see with his oppressed and highly deteriorated eyes. Real freedom is not in arms. It is up, above our nose, in our minds. This is our mind which is shackled and confined with those oppressive forces. Only these chains force us to do things that our conscience actually don’t want to do. We don’t want to do. It’s all about will. unimposed will. Only that will is us. Nothing more than will is freedom nothing less than will. This is the reason why I call myself free. Freedom from everything, every fear. If my life is so fragile that it can end at any moment of time then what’s the point of suppressing my dreams and desire and save them for later purposes. What’s the point for running behind that imposed dream of ‘good life’ that tv and ads tried to show me. I telll you, there is no point for all these bullshits. The only thing that matter is ‘I’. A totally emancipated ‘I’.Except ‘I’ there is no point of doing anything. Although I am still searching that where I lost my ‘I’ and trying to get that back.


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