I am a quiet soul, perhaps a dull one by worldly measure, dwelling more in fiction than in flesh.
My days unfold in silence, where philosophy lingers like evening mist and the voices of Dostoevsky and Camus echo in the hollows of thought. I find strange comfort in existential sorrow, in the ache of classic tales and questions without answers.
I read Jibanananda’s verses as one might watch the twilight fall — slow, solemn, and filled with unnamed longing, where surreal rivers flow backward and owls whisper in forgotten tongues.
In words, I wander — not to escape life, but to understand it. •‿•
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