It must be a dream that motivates a foreigner to leave their country and…..
Dear Reader, are you frustrated with the mythical story of unchangeable destiny written on our forehead?
Let’s look for an alternate history where there’s no boundary, where you can walk with yourself… far…very far away.
Your starting feet tied up with information-loss paradox to think that all your old histories will be lost in the black-hole in absence of you.
Yes that’s the blind-hole, keeps light to an eternal prison forever.
On one end there’s the black-deer eye of quantum beauty, refusing to lose her information. If memory of old love is wiped away, she will have only pencil in hand.
Again at the other end, listen to the exultation of relativity, ‘I’ll not leave my needle-point field without fight’.
As a result you’re confused. Don’t get upset please. There’s a solution on Hawking’s finger.
Fill your palette with your playroom’s colours. Keep brushes of different degrees of relations nearby.
At the end of your daylight, engrave the white canvas with formless sighs of dead feathers. Then fill the vacant space with memories of your first love.
Now imagine a three dimensional hologram. Imagine how the light and darkness accumulate explosive below our ribs with the uncertainty of position throughout life, how the granular sensitiveness in the blood-stream cuts vein and overflows on stony road.
You’re free when canvas becomes full. This’ll survive on the event horizon of black-hole in absence of you.
Hologram may be distorted. Let it be. Still there’s a freedom in another sky from the naked darkness of prison. It’s a freedom from the stony exultation of the roofless marble palace.
This is your moment.
Now just fly and fly. Fly away weightlessly towards uncertainty. Don’t look back please.
Now you’re flying towards the black-hole leaving behind illusion of the earth.
With Feynman’s hint you have already reached to your desired universe where you’re walking with yourself.
You have achieved your alternate history.
[i]Punjabi – long shirt originally used by men of Punjab, India
[ii]Jatinga – Name of a village in the North-East part of India where migratory birds comes flying to suicide swhenever there’s drizzling of rain accompanied with fog in the moonlit night.