I am reading Indian literature these days and I come upon so many interesting things to read that I am running out of time. I truly am, but come on when am I not running out of time?
So here I am, reading, writing and analysing, or to say trying to analyse the great works of some really great writers, when I fall on yet another piece which I relate to so much, it is like a spitting image, a thought stolen form my mind, and yet I know I am the thief here!
I share here a very, very short poem by A.K.Ramanujan, which played with the strings of my mind today.
I resemble everyone
but myself, and sometimes see
despite the well-knownlaws
the portrait of a stranger,
often signed in a corner
by my father.
So yet again the problems of a modern world, problems relating to identity crisis, problems pertaining to knowing yourself, and what not!
Am I the only one, though?