I remember when he used to write to us. An altogether different dimension to him --- something I had never imagined.
I felt lucky to be given a window to his real self, somewhere beneath his hard exterior resided a man who understood us all, loved us more than everything he had and didn't have, who found joy in little things and strived hard for peace of mind. He too like us took little trips down the memory lane--- they made him sad and brought him joy.
He felt different to me but wasn't so different deep down. He too like me wanted simple things in life. He too in this quest made things complicated for himself and for us.
I just wished these intricacies of life would vanish, become intangible so that we give up on them, and he would come back home and just be with us; even if it meant no visits to his heart, no letters, no windows...
I felt lucky to be given a window to his real self, somewhere beneath his hard exterior resided a man who understood us all, loved us more than everything he had and didn't have, who found joy in little things and strived hard for peace of mind. He too like us took little trips down the memory lane--- they made him sad and brought him joy.
He felt different to me but wasn't so different deep down. He too like me wanted simple things in life. He too in this quest made things complicated for himself and for us.
I just wished these intricacies of life would vanish, become intangible so that we give up on them, and he would come back home and just be with us; even if it meant no visits to his heart, no letters, no windows...
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