A Note on Destiny

Recently I have felt weird, as it may, I guess, be read in my posts in here. A breakdown of my internet connection has not helped. Quite surprisingly I have found myself in lack of a proper hobby at this occurrence. As if, against all I say to people I think are addicted to being on-line, I myself was, too.

In some ways, "in a good way," as one of my friends would say looking quirkily in my eyes, this works out for the better. I come back to reading, at last, which is what I needed really. Italo Calvino and his quirky stories are my companions of the times. At reading of the loves of Bradamante, I find myself reading avidly pages and pages of words telling about the ways of imaginative and very imaginary lives, stories in which people in trains have surreal adventures in the infinite universe of their minds, just by sitting on a sofa.

As I recently realised, my soul has been yearning towards such stories for some time. I know now that my heart hurts and looks for some imaginary knight who would both brings us into a world made of laughter and of seriously unreal and imaginary readings. As Per Jakez Helias once wrote, I rediscover that, without dreams of our own to pursue, we are on the path to disappearance. Dreams are what make us human, and more importantly alive. Hurray for Shakespeare's Midsummer Night Dream. Now, if you don't mind I have to come back to my readings.