microfiction 1

11.10.2025

An unaccountable loss this, the ability to write purely imaginative work. Reality was pushing its sharp corners into my mind and my body. This life of suffering… How long was it that you could endure suffering for? It had been a sustained assault, a laboured siege, a ravenous feasting upon me that had taken place over years without end…

So what story could I write? That was different from my life? That was not an interminable quest? That was not a tragedy of heartbreak? A lament of loneliness and unbelonging? A fight against all that there was? A doomed resistance of difference in the face of the great evil of the One?

The public wanted a glimmer of light. That glimmer of light gave them hope. That was what sold. An orphan magician that defeats evil. A misfit that finds love. An underdog that achieves some kind of victory, whether real or imaginary. A problem that is resolved. Justice achieved.

Magic. Love. Victory. Justice. Where was any of this in my life? Where were they in my world?

And so, the need for a new story. Fiction is not the unreal. Fiction is not the false. It is an old chestnut that fiction is another reality. Perhaps more real. Perhaps braver than this reality. An alternative imagining of reality.

Perhaps I should imagine myself as a villain. I write myself into my characters. I could pretend to be the villain. But this would serve the false narrative in place. I am not the villain. I am the hero.

I live in the dystopia. What is this world if it is not dystopian? Perhaps I should invent a Utopia. Where talent is rewarded. Where genius is recognised. Where there is true equality, fairness and inclusion. But would the mind of this society and this reality be able to take it? Would they even be able to begin to comprehend it?

Perhaps this is the great barrier. Perhaps this is the cause of my pen’s impotence.

But tomorrow we pick up the pen again. And tomorrow, we imagine a new tomorrow. That is what the artist creates. From the swamp, the lotus is born. And from the breast of the slave and the faithful, there comes the rebel and the freedom fighter. Just like the devil comes out from the mind of god.

other people (microfiction)

07.10.2025

A: Why do you spend so much time expending your bile on other people?

Me: Because they are intolerable.

A: To you perhaps. You are highly strung. Admit it.

Me: Not at all. Do you know, when I came home from work and an evening somewhere, there was just one person in front of me on the street. Just one person. And despite that, this miscreant was walking in a zigzag across the street, in my way everywhere that I turned. They were glued to their smart phone. That is what people are.

A: What do you mean, that’s what people are?

Me: Inconsiderate. Deliberately in your way.

A: How was this person deliberately in your way? They were just going about their business unaware that you were in the background.

Me: Not at all. Anyone could have been trying to walk past them. They acted like the whole street was theirs. They didn’t have one single thought that there might be someone trying to walk past them.

A: The incapability to walk in a straight line is not a personal failing. They must have got out of your way when they realised that you were there.

Me: After getting in my way. The point is that these people will never let anyone past them. Even at their pathetic rate. Even with their meandering nonsense. That is why this world is like it is. These gatekeepers are everywhere. They won’t let you do anything.

A: You have achieved plenty despite them. They couldn’t keep you out of letters.

Me: I did it by myself. By enduring poverty. By having nothing. With no connections. By being a dependent. Despite their racism and prejudice, their hostility. Because of my genius.

A: I am not disagreeing. I know that they are full of hate. But don’t import their gatekeeping into everything.

Me: Why not? It is everywhere.

A: Let us change the topic. What did you do outside of work today?

Me: An acting workshop. Reading a book about reading. Reading The New Scientist. Shopping. Eating sushi for dinner. Contacting friends. Watching videos. Reading the news. I met a new person somewhere outside of work.

A: You meet new people every single day and nothing ever comes of it.

Me: That is London and its racism. That is this country.

A: Once again, we come onto the topic of other people.

Me: All there are are other people to make life sour.

A: What is your concept of other people?

Me: Despite hearing racism all around me, I have always believed we are all one. When you are all one, you are us. However, it has become apparent that they are not us. I live with the they. None of them are us. None of them are me. They are other people. They want to reject us. And because they reject us, they are them and I am me. They are other people.

A: Do you not believe that we are all one?

Me: It is them that have made the division between us. Not me. That is all that they can do. Divide and fragment. They do not know the meaning of harmony and unity. Their unity is to pit themselves against someone like me.

A: The whole world is not against you.

Me: Yes it is. I am what they want to vanquish and to rule. The ungovernable wild beast. The Tiger. But they cannot rule me. Because no one has ever ruled me. I do what I want. I have the resources of a millionaire. I have the brain of a genius. I have the body of a god. I have the energy of the sun. There is one that is born that cannot be caged. There is the bird that flies high in the blue. Freud said that the paranoic is not entirely without suspicion. They would kill freedom. They would kill anarchy. They would kill real independence and freedom and honour. They would kill me. They would kill my mother. They are murderers of thought and difference, of equality and diversity. But you cannot kill Oedipus. However much you try to protect yourself from Oedipus, it is him that will be King and that will have the Queen. You think that you can kill The Tiger. Come at him in a real fight, see what happens to you. You can’t outsmart Tiger. You can’t out talk Tiger. The man with the heart is the one that will always win. Because the man with the heart is the only real man on this earth. Not these little cowards with their lies and the shrivelled things inside their heads that pump their bastard blood through their bodies.

A: You take the idea that you are a god and a hero far too seriously.

Me: If you model yourself on a god you are a god. You have been called a god after the prayer of the people, after the prayer of your mother. They have asked god to come down upon earth to protect the Mother. There is no other aim in my life. Against the Mother, they are all standing. They want to destroy the Mother. They have seduced all into their evil. But the Mother, she is invincible. That is her name, ‘The Invincible’, Durga. Shakti is what they call her, power itself. And she is triumphant because she sits upon the tiger. I am The Tiger. I am her vehicle. She gave birth to me so I would prostrate myself before her and carry her through this world. So I speak the words of The Tiger. I speak the legend of The Tiger. For six thousand years, The Tiger has dwelt in Punjab. Now he is in London. This era will be like every other era. It will be the era of The Tiger. I am the past. I am the present. I am the future. There is only one way. That is the way of The Tiger. The warrior culture. There is an Indian film. I have changed the last line:

Death before dishonour.

Service before Self.

The Mother before everything.

the lie (microfiction)

06.10.2025

‘Imagine there is a lie,’ I said to Alfonso. ‘A great lie that you are told, that I am told, that we are all told. A lie we have all spent our whole lives trying to obtain.’

‘Is this a riddle?’ asked Alfonso, looking over at me from above the pages of his magazine. Again, it was just us at the end of the day. In the lonely night, he was the only one there for me. The only one to say the things of the heart to. My most intimate friend.

‘It is no riddle. The lie is connection.’

‘Absurd. You have friends. The obvious example is before you. You are connected.’

‘Real connection is romantic love. It is the highest order of connection. Romantic love is the highest form of connection, whatever form it takes.’

‘Some people have romantic love.’

‘Not people like me.’

Alfonso tutted at me. ‘It is the case,’ I continued. ‘They lied to me. They said to become something and you will find real connection. They are all fucking liars.’

In a patronising tone, Alfonso asked me how that made me feel.

‘I have learnt not to trust anyone. So now there is no trust in my life.’ Tut. ‘I have learnt that there is no connection with anyone. So now there is no connection in my life.’ Tut. ‘I have learnt that there is no warmth from anyone. So now there is no warmth in my life.’ Tut tut.

‘You are suggesting,’ Alfonso said, ‘in your wallow of self pity, that you are a meaningless, isolated atom that is removed from the whole of humanity. When all you do is build communities around yourself. You have literally hundreds of people that you know. If it is the case that no man is an island, you in particular are no island.’

‘They are all strangers.’

‘Because you can’t fuck them?’ Alfonso asked incredulously.

‘There is no need to downgrade the sexual act. That is real connection. The chemicals that it creates. Its alteration of the mind.’

‘You only feel lonely in the nights.’

‘We only talk together in the nights.’

‘You are not lonely.’

‘When I lie in my bed alone in the night time, I feel the loneliness of death.’

‘Love is heartbreak. Love is sorrow. Be thankful you don’t have to have your heart broken every minute.’

‘What do you think this world has done to me? Why do you think I am like this?’

We sat in silence, ruminating on things. It was past eleven in the night time. Soon would come the witching hour.

control (microfiction)

04.10.2025

‘You don’t have any self-control’. Alfonso commented.

‘On the contrary, I have the most in the world.’ I responded. He was always accusing me of something or the other. Everyone was always accusing me of something. That was all that I was to them. Someone to accuse. Well, I accused in my turn. I accused them.

‘In what way?’ Alfonso asked incredulously. ‘You have fallen in love with women that are not even your type just because of close proximity to them. Several times.’

‘Have you not read Proust’s magnum opus?’ I asked. ‘That is how they get you. Through the proximity. You are assured that you are safe. You are not.’

‘So how do you have any self-control?’

‘Because even though I loved them, I did not even touch them.’

‘That is not your self-control,’ Alfonso sneered at me. ‘They did not let you touch them.’

‘You should be around beauty all day and not get a taste of it,’ I said to him. ‘Then judge me.’

Alfonso snorted. ‘Let us chisel past that front. What original thoughts did you have today?’

‘There is an author who has written a new book about how we know what everyone knows, how common sense is created. It is the mark of a philistine and a mediocre Western mind that this book was written. Because their conceit is to always talk about a positive form of knowledge when it is not knowledge at all. Socrates knew that. Here, common knowledge. What everyone knows. In fact, common knowledge is just a form of ignorance. It is what the fool knows. The wise man is the one that knows. What is common knowledge? That you should pour wealth on yourself like excrement to be considered attractive and influential? That education is worthless? That hate sells? Why do you think that living piece of shit Trump and that specimen of rancid ear wax Farage are in the ascendency? Because they know what the scum think. And what the scum thinks is ignorance, lies and stupidity. That is all that they can accept. Not love, truth or justice.’

‘You are full of hate,’ Alfonso commented. ‘Even more hate than they are.’

‘This poison that is in me,’ I said. ‘It will kill the evil in this world.’

‘You will choke on it,’ Alfonso said. ‘You are the only one that will be hurt by it. Come, forget this. Something else.’

‘How about this for a thought? What is this garbage?’

‘What do you mean? Alfonso looked at me keenly.

‘This life. It is garbage. What is this garbage? Even religious people want to escape this life. The Hindu wants to escape the cycle of rebirth and reincarnation. The Christian, the Muslim and the Jew want to go to heaven. They want to die rather than to live.’

Alfonso shook his head at me. So what? It was the truth. Nobody wanted to live here. Look at this fucking garbage that they had made. Alfonso was asking me about original thoughts I was having in this fucking garbage. The stench of it was making me sick. The sight of its ugliness was denting my mind and my eyes. Its extent was polluting the whole of society. And Alfonso wanted an original thought from me that wasn’t cynical and jaded, weary of this fucking garbage. All there was was this fucking garbage. And when you pointed out the garbage, nobody listened and they tried to attack you. That was the triumph of the garbage.

ultimate happiness (microfiction)

30.09.2025

‘Where do you think ultimate happiness lies?’ Alfonso asked me. We were eating sushi together. It was a supermarket version. Although he had, I had never eaten sushi in a restaurant. I was taught to be careful with money. Sushi was expensive. It is difficult to drift from a culture of thrift. The supermarket stuff wasn’t absolutely appalling.

‘The answer is just three letters: SEX.’

‘Aah. A sensualist. Come on then. Why sex? I heard the capital letters in your tone.’ It was a purple shirt today. Very classy.

‘Because you are able to forget everything in the moment.’

‘Why then,’ Alfonso asked me, ‘if it is so pleasurable, that people won’t take every opportunity to have sex? Do they not want to be happy?’

‘I told you that I will not make any comments about women,’ I said to Alfonso. ‘And the answer to this question necessarily relies on me talking about women.’ After all, life teaches you to hold your tongue.

‘Necessarily?’

‘If you want to ask unhappy people why they are unhappy, you should ask them. My answer is that I am unhappy. Read between the lines.’

‘Food makes you happy though. I have seen it.’

‘Yes, I am also a glutton. That is another aspect of being a sensualist.’

‘And company makes you happy. Friends make you happy. Natural beauty makes you happy. Creativity makes you happy. Education makes you happy. Why then do you say sex is the ultimate happiness?’

‘Because sex will give you babies and a family. The other things might be well in their own way, but the only way to secure long term happiness is through sex. These people that don’t and won’t have sexual relationships are going to be even unhappier in the future.’

‘Don’t speak for other people. You don’t know their minds.’

‘Let’s change the topic. What is your ultimate happiness?’

Alfonso was always asking me things about what I thought. And then questioning them. What did he think?

‘Happiness is friendship. Having good friends for company.’

‘But I contrast friendship with a family. You cannot build something with a friend like a family.’

Alfonso sighed. ‘That is your problem. You have good friends. You have satisfying work. You have money. Your health is not absolutely in tatters. You are still young. You have so much going on in your life. And all you can think about is that family that you do not have. Why can’t you be like all the others and forget about having a family?’

‘It is the most important thing in our culture.’

‘Do what it takes to get it if you think it is so important.’

‘I told you. Family is the most important thing. I have to look after the ones that I have got. They are not expendable.’

‘So the family is destroying your family?’

‘What a world, eh?’ I grimaced. ‘No one can forgive you for being loyal. For disloyalty, they can forgive you everything. And then, all the other things you have to do…’

I trailed off. There was no point saying anything. Because having an opinion on this topic was dangerous. Dangerous and unproductive. There was no point to it.

headphones (microfiction)

29.09.2025

‘So I got home,’ I was telling Alfonso, ‘and just as I was heading towards the door, I took my headphones out which I use to drown out the sordid sounds of this sordid world. As soon as I did so, I heard the harassing, haranguing voice of an absolute idiot belting out some sorry tale at eleven o’clock in the night time without any consideration that he was walking in a residential area. In his voice, pure ignorance. I keep on telling you. I hate other people.’

‘They also hate you.’ Alfonso said, smiling.

‘I know they do. That is why I return their hate with interest,’ I told Alfonso. ‘But unlike them, I don’t hate them because of their skin colour or culture. I hate them because of their selfishness and their meanness. Their love of dishonour and atrocity and injustice. The lack of any love in their hearts except for themselves. They want to fuck themselves and they do fuck themselves. There was a reason that masturbation was a prime sin in the bible.’

‘Why can’t you forgive those that reject you?’

‘Why should I? The problem that my people have faced is rejection and devaluation. In India, we were Untouchables, the lowest caste. They devalued us. They could not see us as fellow humans. Here in England, they see you as an outsider and they devalue you correspondingly. They have rejected us. And by doing so, they become devalued. They become scum. They become vermin.’

‘Can’t you just see them as having a mental condition? As patients?’

‘No. You do not believe in evil and sin. I do. They are evil. They sin. They should be punished for their wrongs.’

‘You would punish them?’

‘Any time these cowards have dared to come up in my face, I have given them the answer. Even when they walk about in their hordes like sheep. I know the truth. I never back down. They think because there are more of them, they can do whatever they want. I don’t let them. I have never backed down from a fight from anyone. It doesn’t matter if it is an institution that is more powerful than me or a group of six or eight racists. I always go. I’m a warrior. They call me Tiger. I call myself Tiger. Tiger has teeth. Tiger is always ready to fight. Always. Only the coward does not fight.’

‘There are those that believe in peace.’

‘No one more than me. But when peace becomes dishonour, then it is the time to fight. And that time is now.’

‘For you, it is always now.’

‘It is always now.’

‘One day, you will be in serious trouble.’

‘Let us hope that that beautiful day comes soon. My mouth waters at the prospect. But until then, the hand of The Mother is upon my head. I am protected.’

‘What if I said there was no Mother?’

‘She is an ideal. An ideal exists in mental reality. The Mother is a representation of the perfect warrior, the life force. And the life force has decided that nothing will ever happen to me. Even in this world of enemies.’

praise (microfiction)

25.09.2025

‘You have perked up,’ commented Alfonso.

‘Over my wounds, he poured his praise. The recognition of my talent. As a writer. As a scholar. As a fighter for justice.’

‘The praise healed you? What is praise?’

‘This praise comes from the wise,’ I said. ‘It comes from those in the same game that I have played. They are masters at the game. They have dedicated their lives to the game. And now, they have themselves called me a master.’

‘What is the subject of this praise?’

‘The book which will proclaim my genius to the world.’ I said. I knew the true value of that book and how it would transform thought. I, the genius, I knew what the gift of my genius would mean. What it would mean for the People. And for the Revolution. Whoever had read it had gasped with admiration. There were four of us that knew the secret workings of this world from me now. The heart of the Revolution.

And this genius had meant a price. A heavy price. I stood completely alone in the world. Because genius stands completely alone. I was not a mortal man. I was not like them. I stood apart. Like a god. It was my destiny. This mind had been forged by six thousand years of India. This thought had been crafted by the ideal of The Tiger. How much had I done to become the one that solved the riddle of the Sphinx? No one else was capable of this ambition, this drive, this persistence, this discipline, this work, this born talent. That was why I was a genius. And they were not.

And what did this genius want? This genius had vowed revenge upon this society. Upon the law of the unjust. In my mind I kept on seeing myself in a boxing match with the law. We would circle each other. And I would sink the fatal blow. In my mind I kept on saying the phrase in Hindi, ‘I will break your face/mouth otherwise my name is not Love.’ [agar mainein tera mooh na todhdeya to mera naam mohabbat nahein hai].

On the walls of my heart, there were the photographs of the freedom fighters. In my dreams, there was the Revolution. And them? On the walls of their hearts were the bastards that had raped and pillaged the world and made it into a hell. Their leaders? Criminals. Nazis. Their love? Injustice. Selfishness and ego were their creed. They were my enemies.

And against my enemies, my millions of enemies, I had my voice. The voice of The Tiger. The roar of The Tiger. I am the Truth. I am Justice. I am god that has been born on the earth to rid it of sin. I am the one that loves Mother India and is beloved by her, the son that protects her honour.

The praise had confirmed the intent. I was going to do what it took to get this book published now. Now was the time to strike the hammer against the iron. The process had already started. The book had been accepted in all but formality.

There was one that stood against all. There was one that never bowed his head to anyone but The Mother. There was one that never fell. There was the one that was born to be the seer and the leader. Once there was one whose ego was invincible, whose stubborness was legendary and who was the ungovernable, wild beast, FREEDOM.

Jai Maa Kaali! Inquilaab zindabaad! Inquilaab saada zindabaad! [Hail the Dark Mother! Long Live the Revolution! May the Revolution Live Forever!]

race (microfiction)

24.09.2025

It was eleven fifty five in the night time. I was still full from the dinner I had eaten at ten o’clock because I had been out singing with my group. Alfonso was sitting in another country. An expensive country for a holiday. I was writing to him:

Black was the night. At the end of a long day, I was coming home. As I came out of the tube station, shining in the lights was the red livery of a bus. Without thinking about it, I started running towards the bus station at full speed.

In front of me, quite a few paces in front, there was a young man. He had also started running. Now I do not like anyone being in front of me in a race. And this was a race. Why? I made it a race. Because I have an ego. I am a narcissist. And I am a narcissist because I live in a world that tries to devalue me and tries to tell me that I am nothing. And I fight against it. I refuse to be nothing. I am special.

I am not a narcissist like other narcissists. Because I am a narcissist for my community. For us. I am the champion of my people.

I was a schoolboy athlete. I won because I had the body of a god, nerves of steel and self-belief. My mind is stronger than anyone else’s. I am invincible, undefeatable. Even at my age, I am still quicker than most people.

And then, even though he had started so ahead of me, I was running past him. Now, it was me that was miles in front. I was the winner. I never doubted it. It didn’t matter how far ahead of me he was when he had started.

The difference between me and anyone else is that I will run to my very limit, even so hard that I feel nauseous and dizzy at the end of it. Because nobody else can bear the pain that I have had to live with. No one else is as hard as me.

You are wondering why I am writing this anecdote of these very real events. You are wondering why I race against buses on the streets to the next station. Because I love fighting. I love running. I love winning. I love a challenge.

I have always been the underdog. In India, they scorned us as Untouchables. In the United Kingdom, they treat me like an outsider even though it was my grandfather that first came to this country. I will fight until my last breath against the disrespect and hate that is given to my people and to Mother India. It is why my mother gave birth to me. She prayed for someone to save the honour of Mother India.

Even after a major leg operation a few months ago, there was no way that I would lose to that young man. People see the white hairs on my head and think my age has passed. I am still fitter than everyone, I still have more stamina than everyone and I still have more ability than everyone. You can’t beat good genes. My grandfather was a university level athlete. The top in his university. I come from farmer stock. My parents married young. It is hard to match the power in this body. It is not a boast. It is reality.

And I have been expected to be the best at everything every since I was a baby. And so I am. My ego is absolutely unassailable.

That’s why I win. I was born to be a champion and raised to be a champion. I was born to be Tiger and I am Tiger.

who are you? (microfiction)

17.09.2025

‘Who are you?’ asked Alfonso.

‘Don’t you tell me that I talk too much about myself?’ I responded.

‘I am inviting you to dwell upon the subject. A straightforward question.’

‘I am a man named after a love story. I am a man named after honour and protection. I am a man named after a god. The god of love. All my names are the names of love.’

‘Even Tiger?’

‘Tiger is ferocious because Tiger has a big heart.’

‘Forget about your names. What are you?’

‘I am The Tiger. I am my enemy’s enemy. They say that you have to fulfil all your relationships in India. I fulfil them. An enemy’s enemy. A hero from the Sikh and Hindu community’s idea of a hero. From India’s idea of a hero. A fighter for the justice of the oppressed. An Untouchable.’

‘And what about the shadow? You are not all light, are you? You love to fight.’

‘What of it? It is for the good.’

‘And this hunger of The Tiger?’

‘Don’t be like them. There is nothing wrong with it. Don’t be deluded into thinking their way. They do not know how to live or love.’

‘You miss out everything. Do you not write? Do you not sing and make music? Do you not act? Do you not read all of the time? Are you not a poet?’

‘You did not ask me what I did. You asked me what I was. Yes, I am creative. Yes I am all those things, writer, poet, singer, music composer, reader.’

‘The sulking? The silence? The anger?’

‘You would want one that has been disappointed and never given his true value or what he should have been given to dance, laugh, clap his hands and cry tears of laughter? I am not a clown for their amusement.’

‘Any other thoughts upon what you are?’

‘Introvert. Extrovert. Sensitive. Callous. Quiet. Loud. Everything and nothing. All of these labels, categories. There is one constant. The Tiger is the warrior and the lover. Honest and loyal to the death. Braver than everyone else. Brimming with fire and heat. The power and energy of India.’

‘Vain. Boastful. Childish.’

‘Innocence is not childish. It is the mark of the brave and the honest.’

Alfonso clapped me on the back. ‘You have not said it all. I know there is more in you. I agree with you. You are a genius and an athlete. I have read your thoughts. You deserve to have whatever you want tossed at you. Remain The Tiger. One day there will be somebody on your level. And on that day, you will be recognised for your reality. They that pretend they do not know? They lie.’

suffering and reading (microfiction)

15.09.2025

‘Instead of suffering, shall we have another topic today?’ Alfonso asked me.

‘Well then, what would you like?’ I responded.

‘Isn’t it more the case of what you think your readers would like?’

‘Is it going to be a question for a question?’

‘Why not?’

‘You would rather have a whole conversation as a question?’

‘Don’t you think it’s possible?’

We both laughed. Fighting and laughing. We did those things the best.

‘So, the topic I will introduce,’ I continued, ‘is reading. When I finished that long trilogy that I was reading, I did not manage to slip into anything else. I made a desultory few pages into a children’s picture book about animal languages. That one is on my library app on my phone. Life is so busy it is hard to read anything.’

‘Didn’t you tell me,’ Alfonso smiled, ‘that there was a certain someone that read everything that you wrote on your blog for two whole years? Every night. Why were they reading and how did they accomplish the feat?’

I ignored the question. I had a theory. But dwelling on such topics was dangerous.

‘I am speaking of myself. I don’t have the requisite tranquillity to read nowadays.’

‘You are lying,’ said Alfonso. ‘How do you get such good marks on your part time university course around work hours? You do seventy or so hours a week on work, maybe even more. And yet you are still doing the reading and getting good grades on it.’

Alfonso was good at cross-examination.

‘I am talking about fiction. Which is supposedly the easiest of reads. But it goes back to the beginning of this conversation.’

‘In what way?’

‘You wanted a different topic from suffering. But suffering is all there is in my life. Reading is a great pleasure to me. It has been since I was a child. I was a precocious reader. Later in adult life, I did an English Literature degree and then a PhD in that subject. To give myself time to read. Yet now? Because I suffer so much, I find it extraordinarily difficult to lose myself in a book.’

‘You blame suffering. Why not blame distractions?’

‘Do you really believe that my attention span has atrophied with these users of their smartphones? I still read more in one day than most people manage in a month. Psychology articles, newspapers, magazines, poems, posts about history, art and culture. I don’t touch the fluff that they degrade their minds with. You are fortunate. You do not suffer. And therefore you read.’

‘Perhaps you should read to escape suffering. To lose yourself in another world.’

‘Before you take a step

Look where your feet are

Before you take a leap

Find what you are anchored to’

‘I make the wish for you to read.’

‘I make the wish to discover life instead. Instead of living as the dead and the dying.’