a year ago a new chapter started in my life, a chapter i thought would never come to a close. but it did. its ending overlapped with the beginning of a new one. other undreamed of endings took place, too, as well as some undreamed of beginnings. there are, in fact, no chapters, just branchings out into the unknown and unforeseeable. the multiple streaks that run parallel, and intertwine, and disappear, and come back again.
it happens frequently when i walk around stockholm, which beauty always hurts, that i become aware of the multifaceted nature of every moment. just like in indian yards where saris are dyed, there commences a fluttering and heaving and waving deep within me, and the threads get loose in every direction - my loves, my homelands, my dreams and my secrets. the music, the adriatic, the hands. the beauty around me. the nordic air. the rain on the windscreen as the radio plays 'sto si ti meni'. the whole world.
if i gave a conclusion now i would betray the main point of the text. novels with open endings have been written for centuries. although i prefer a neat closure when i read a book, missing epilogues are much truer to life. my preference only speaks about my immature desire for certainty in a world swaying on shaky legs.
