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Quote by Randhir Kaur

“As I walk down the streets that remained the witness of our love, I hear several voices calling out your name. People laugh at the way I smile, they act odd when I talk and walk through the woods with you, their eyes behave insane. Two of them didn't closed the door as I followed your voice through the areca trees. I heard them discussing 'black magic'. They don't believe my insanity for you, they dont believe the love I hear in those moist leaves. Even though you are not with me, I often sit here and write our story under that tree but with no stain words on the pages . I go home with the silences. The silence of the final goodbye..”

Quote by Randhir Kaur

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Randhir Kaur

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“Each of us is aware he's a material being, subject to the laws of physiology and physics, and that the strength of all our emotions combined cannot counteract those laws. It can only hate them. The eternal belief of lovers and poets in the power of love which is more enduring that death, the finis vitae sed non amoris that has pursued us through the centuries is a lie. But this lie is not ridiculous, it's simply futile. To be a clock on the other hand, measuring the passage of time, one that is smashed and rebuilt over and again, one in whose mechanism despair and love are set in motion by the watchmaker along with the first movements of the cogs. To know one is a repeater of suffering felt ever more deeply as it becomes increasingly comical through a multiple repetitions. To replay human existence - fine. But to replay it in the way a drunk replays a corny tune pushing coins over and over into the jukebox?”

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Book:Solaris
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“His silence had begun as something protective, but over the years it has transformed to something near oppressive, something that manages him rather than the other way around. Now he cannot find a way out of it, even when he wants to. He imagines he is floating in a small bubble of water, encased on all sides by walls and ceilings and floors of ice, many feet thick. He knows there is a way out, but he is unequipped; he has no tools to begin his work, and his hands scrabble uselessly against the ice’s slick. He had thought that by not saying who he was, he was making himself more palatable, less strange. But now, what he doesn’t say makes him stranger, an object of pity and even suspicion.”

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Book:A Little Life
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