If you like to read books and grow fond of them, you can probably understand how tough it is to part with them. And fate doesn't spare you from the necessary evil of sorting and cleaning the book stock you painstakingly (of course carelessly) built.
Around 4-5 years ago, I had bought a story book, 33 Stories by Tagore, from the hidden treasures of a second-hand book mart. Not quite impressed by the translation, which seemed quite literal back then, I wondered why I still had the book. The reason was probaby the label, Tagore.
Inside this (disliked) book was a leaf of ficus religiosa (sacred fig or peepal tree) which I had kept to be transformed into a completely translucent one.
The leaf looked so beautiful that I couldn't stop gazing. With all its delicate and tiny network of veins visible, another meaning of the word intricate was revealed in that moment. What made it so attractive? Was it those empty cells or the veins themselves? What gives meaning, purpose and beauty to life? Is the events or the endless span of silence between them?
Sometimes it is good to forget things you started, as by not messing you give them a chance to meet you when you are ready. And then when they arrive back, they gift you an entirely new perspective to perceive life with clarity.
- The Last Nomad