No intelligence, please!

Life has a way of throwing things in your way with its invisible hands. But we’re too preoccupied to spot them in light, and scared to search in the dark.

I’m both preoccupied and scared. Along my way, I don’t look around much these days. Its been more than a year since I’ve last indulged in a book of fiction, and floated in its story. Have you ever read a book and floated in its story for the next several days? I used to love floating in a story that was unreal; and its afterglow would take my imagination to the craziest heights and farthest shores. And I used to love the instant urgency a finished book injected in me, to write my own story, or to read one more of someone else’s.

Something’s kept me away from those farthest shores. I don’t let myself enjoy imagination as much as I used to, and I don’t trust its path. Hell, what happened to me? Did I just become intelligent? Because I don’t want to be that. I want to be a child who keeps laughing and wondering. Then tumbling. Then laughing again and wondering again. And always singing. Just like in the shower. Like the prettiest singer with the sweetest voice in the world. So, I don’t want to be intelligent. Intelligent people are too protective of themselves to let them tumble, and they almost never sing in the shower. That’s because they secretly hate their own voice.

God, don’t make me want to be intelligent, if that is going to cost me my love for curiosity and foolishness. I’d be a horribly pretentious intelligent woman who didn’t know to laugh or sing. You wouldn’t want to miss my shower songs, would you God? Not if I promise to sing louder.


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