Literature. Library. Books.

"Literature" is like a very sensuous and beautiful woman who turns me on every single time I think or talk about it (her). I don't consider "literature" to be merely a subject of study. It is a living thing for me, warm and affectionate, and I find peace in her. I talk to her, I feel her, I sniff her through the old books in the old silent library. This library with books on literature is very quite and calm in her composure. Yet, she talks back as I read her. She speaks out loud. It's wonderful to be with her. It's soothing. Time stops. All I want to do is pick out the old books, sit and read them one by one, line by line, word by word, letter by letter. I wanna absorb all that they have into myself. They complete my being.

Live a life.. or waste it...

There's more to life than this.
Certainly more than what I believe.
And my imagination is limited.
My mind is a little baby.
One who knows nothing.
This baby looks content
With what he sees, what he has.
Although he seeks to explore more,
Yet, being a baby, what can he?
There are more cities than
What I have seen so far
More nations, more worlds,
More planets, perhaps...
Then why am I bound?
Why shrunken only to die?
To die without having lived?
Nah, a straight, plain "NO", I say!
With whatever I have today,
My conscience, my talents, skills,
Howsoever scarce they may be,
I shall set them free to life,
For if I keep them caged, confined,
They would still strive to escape,
And in the process, Lord,
I might just earn a few regards,
But, I shall have wasted a life.