Life is parallel to an empty book. How it is to be filled and how much is to be filled, is entirely our call. It is our book. It is our life. Our book, our ink. Sometimes, we let others write our story, with their ink. And the story that they pen does not always have a fairy-tale ending. Why shoukd anyone else be given the right to write our story?
Life is funny. An epitome of paradoxes. Tears and smiles.
For a labourer, life is uncertain. It is getting up at dawn and toiling away till midnight to ensure that the wolf stays away from the door. It is a constant struggle for survival.
For a middle-class man, life is simply fulfilling the basic necessities of life, of climbing the success ladder, of being at par with the elite. It is a constant struggle for a better future, a…
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