‘A philosopher’s importance lies not in the correctness of his views, but in whether his ideas move men to action’. Some, irrespective of the earned knowledge or ignorance, go beyond their personal misery; an uncharacteristic feat cutting straight through the realms of both sense and fiction. One such man I met last week, painting his world with a butterfly wing, unaware of whether he was humanizing colors or were they just transcending him into a mystic. A mythical self that could trail any path, as for his curiosity, tangled stories producing nothing but experience are to be found everywhere.
Every story has its own color, but only for a meager fraction of time. It changes, as the subjectivity of both sense and fiction finds peace in confusion. Every story is colored by its interpretation, as you would know; black can be the color of love, and white may well signify both ‘nothing’ and ‘everything’ at the same time.
Why are you scared?
