We all walk the same road, travelled by thousands, still we all experience something different. Was it the road which offered, or, was it always within me — the road just facilitated? The present of me is the culmination of past, and so does the future. In the middle of the road, we always look forward, we look at the milestones. But when it comes to life, we look backward — even though we all know it always moves forward. We think of the future, and end up creating the past. Was it the journey of the road, or the journey of life which made it different? If it’s the road, then it has to be the same. And if it’s the life, then there should not be any comparison. We all learn the language to express ourselves. But there are things which cannot be captured in mere words. Sometimes silence is more piercing than harsh words. Words are just one of the tools to express something — yet we put too much importance on them. A child who hasn’t learned a single word still knows the language of love. He knows how to get something. He can’t speak a single word, but we know what he wants. We don’t understand what the cuckoo is saying, still we love her voice — and hate the crow, without understanding, without realizing. Even though the cuckoo’s birth starts with the death of someone else, its life is based on selfishness — murder. And the crow makes its own nest — life begins with sheer hard work, bit by bit, piece by piece. Maybe we judge based on sweetness. We judge the book by its cover. We give too much importance to superfluous things. Everything comes later — things need time to understand the behavior, to understand the person.

“We chase meaning, but meaning is never given — it’s created. The same road holds a thousand stories, each told by a different traveler. Perhaps, it’s never the path that defines us, but the eyes that see it.”