Some Other Time

At best I can write about it. But then, it would be called a confession. And confessions, no matter how imperative they might be, should be intelligent because the confessor has to continue living with himself in spite of those confessions. I realize that even my confessions should be natural in a self pleasing manner because to hear of it after many years upon a chance encounter, when I would have built up my life quite differently, wouldn’t be peculiarly attractive because confessions dear friends, go through a great deal that’s bad. In plain words, it takes muscle and guts to confess, to show the world what you actually are, and have vanity enough to stand by your thoughts once they’re out in the open. At present life’s like a chess board and with every move I realize that there’s no point in being blatantly honest for all the game requires is a stealthy and measured glide like that of a chess player. So confessions can wait…

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