Unspoken words.
Just that he didn't make it out through his buccal and it didn't reach my ear drums. But that shadow in his voice did pierce both our souls, his and mine.
As my Dad spoke to me during our tea time together, the most cherished of and possessed moment when we come together in the whole day to discuss about something not exactly intellegentsia kind but something that teases both our minds and senses. Rare moments these are to us. The irony is that we live together under the same roof with so much of time for everything else, but so less for each other.
Anyway let me not sway. And there he was with desperacy in his voice. Kind of weird of me to draw such a conclusion though. He drew up scenes where he ended up remarking insanity as a common vice of those who are on the path of being Philosophers of their own slot. He having got his hands on few of those texts related to the same, he apologetically maintained that his own daughter was a rebellion of her own kind. A philosopher maybe, of her own flock. On the verge of insanity of her own lot, which he cherishes and condemns both with equal heart and rationale. I could neither be pleased nor oppose cause deep within I know my denial would never turn me away from the reality I live every day. That reality of my absurdity, my own packaged weirdness that I owe up to myself.
As my Dad spoke to me during our tea time together, the most cherished of and possessed moment when we come together in the whole day to discuss about something not exactly intellegentsia kind but something that teases both our minds and senses. Rare moments these are to us. The irony is that we live together under the same roof with so much of time for everything else, but so less for each other.
Anyway let me not sway. And there he was with desperacy in his voice. Kind of weird of me to draw such a conclusion though. He drew up scenes where he ended up remarking insanity as a common vice of those who are on the path of being Philosophers of their own slot. He having got his hands on few of those texts related to the same, he apologetically maintained that his own daughter was a rebellion of her own kind. A philosopher maybe, of her own flock. On the verge of insanity of her own lot, which he cherishes and condemns both with equal heart and rationale. I could neither be pleased nor oppose cause deep within I know my denial would never turn me away from the reality I live every day. That reality of my absurdity, my own packaged weirdness that I owe up to myself.
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