This is just for information

It starts with the feeling of shame when I decided to analyse myself. I wasn't feeling any shame when the person started slapping me when I put fire on his hay, since then the hay had different faces but the subject was just the same.

No nostaligic feeling came to me whenever it got repeated but the sense of awe was their which converted to anger and finally to confidence but never shame. The people related to me and who witnessed the same felt shame and and the culprits started trembling in front of me but I wasn't.

Then the boy decided to convert him from a monk to satan but still the problem of sophisticaion comes in between him and the revenge. He didn't forgive, he just forget to forgive.

The confidence in him made him non-beliver and started to built up to such a level that he started reading books like "shame" for the feeling of shame. When I was a child my parents told me that shame is manners and that is what have got me. When I try to show manners it became sofastication instead of shame and when I understood that the time has already passed away and finally I become a homicide who is too restless to fuck the world.

I started "atlas shrugged" and it took me to the world of fantasy where I always wanted to be. I was always trying to be a person who is too selfless when I was teenager and also when I was in so called feeling of love and emotions, and then I read it where I learned that I was projecting what I am not. But these of my feeling changes when my own creativity has been blocked by the books. My analysing capacity finds the statements as axioms and my ass try to grasps them not to avoid them and then the fantasy takes me to Hogwards where finally I have dreamt to live with Hermione Granger.

Even one day when I was sitting with Hermoine Granger alone in a mathematics class just as close as I am to my own self. I could smell even her parts and feel the thing which a boy should never feel after the girl had ............. That was the when I was truly I don't know felt what but that day I again felt the same slap what I have felt when I fired the hay, and the real victim was the teacher and she who felt shame, while nobody knows the culprit. This was again realised by me years later when I saw Dev D.


The slaps went on from home to school, class to hostel, trip to inertia, lansdowne to varanasi to pune to ahemdabad to delhi to every where I went. and the story is still going on.

THIS IS JUST FOR INFORMATION

Deepak Agarwal