On Literature

Literature is beyond society, but preservation of history for the depiction of the present and the reservation for tomorrow. It is a view to the world, things that pre-existed some, before some and would outlive some. Apparently, human is among the ‘some’. However, the extension of influence is a matter of unknown cooperate dependency. 

Influence, The anticipated autonomy of lined cravings in a clichéd society. ‘To whom much is given, much is expected’. In a recent conversation with a pal, we widely talked about the effect of influence, what pre-existed humanity. History is what made us, Influence was presented to us from birth, a life that chose us before we could choose which we would prefer, like a nutmeg, it becomes a reminder, a consciousness to our existence and a limitation to following another path.

Then, we live in lines of daymares and more mares. We lied to ourselves. Our minds became an alien, we can’t compound what we need, the definition is faraway.

Everything seems vague, you suddenly became puzzled, your whole seems insignificant, all blurry, you just couldn’t, you live in routines, in abashed abjection. 

He lives in an uncertain luxury, wavering like a climate, in tons of tension. 

She goes about flaunting flawed ego.

It goes about in a muted mind, trying to process why existing with humanity.

Again, like a core, one core, one realization, specific and spontaneous. Literature is the mirror, perception displayed in creations of diverse creators.