Let us suppose a world in which everyone knows everyone else’s
reality. A world in which everything is crystal clear. Everything is insanely
sane and perfect. I want to know if love would grow in such a world. Such a
world won’t have place for poetry, that is certain. For poetry loves to praise
the imperfections and there would be no imperfections. There should be love in
that world. Pure? Yes, it would be pure, almost distilled. As pure as the
cloudless sky. It would be perfect too. But will anyone enjoy that love? The
enjoyment of love is in relating. Relating the heavenly to the mundane. Relating
the skies to the dirt. Love is enjoyed when it is played like a violin by the hands of metaphors and similes. When all the things are perfect and heavenly, the
heaven will lose its value. It would become a boredom. The most boring place of
this universe. That place would be like a cemetery with no person singing and
dancing his sorrows away. For there would be no sorrows. So, you see, a
sorrow-less world is imperfect. So, how is it perfect? Our whole life, we do
nothing but strive for such an imperfect so-called perfect world, of which there
is no need. Everything IS beautiful, yes, this should be the word, not
perfection. We need to have some pain and passion to sing and dance. We need to
have something which does not seem good and perfect (although it is) so that some
writers like me can put their tongues in their cheeks and write about, so that it
would be a matter to make movies on, to write songs about. The world is real,
yet it is the imaginations associated with it, the imaginations of wonder, that
make it a place worth living.
-Manan sheel.
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