After spending most of my life, the changes I feel within myself and the new ideas that form unintentionally are expressed in this writing. It reflects a very ordinary person's own changes, heartfelt thoughts, and intrinsic beliefs, which are not always possible to express outwardly. I have nothing significant to present before the readers. The fear is that I might come off as ridiculous. Yet, driven by a blind emotion within me, I write, and some garland of words resonates on the pages, which is true. Whether these are of good quality or impact anyone, I do not know.
Writing is a creation filled with joy and pain. It is somewhat mysterious. Sometimes, during sleep, while walking, on a moving bus, or rickshaw, during a morning walk, the urge to write is born. This is purely a personal thing. If that personal emotion and feeling spread from the individual to the surroundings, my thoughts and pain become the thoughts and pain of others. I feel like I can say a lot about this if I try. But when I sit down to write, words fail me. Why do I write, why does writing pull me to itself ? Sometimes, I feel there is much to learn. A lot. Inside my heart, countless writing materials bubble up. Various words and sentences start to form inside.
It is true that I am not a writer. What I try to write is merely an attempt to pass the time and find joy in solitude. I am waiting for an attentive reader who has no other book in hand, who has only one book, no other stories stored up, and I am that book; I am that story. Such an attentive reader may, with some disinterest, read through the entire book. And in the end, intense astonishment will overflow from their eyes. In the regret of finishing the story, they will become calm and cool like a dead river.