The Plastering of Thought-Walls: 123

Thought: Eight Hundred and Fifty-Five

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One. Every piece of my writing today has become saturated with you! How have you merged so completely with my pain, my anguish!? Dwelling within me, you understand my life, my unspoken words, better than I do myself. I write everything feeling you, as if you are the one writing! How is this possible? The more I know you, the more enchanted I become... I would live for the sole purpose of loving you.
Do you ever truly think that this journey of mine could serve as an example for someone else? Am I really progressing that way in my life? You contemplate my writing, give it time, which is why the question occurred to me. The reason is, I never think deeply about things—I write to escape my sufferings; I just keep running, still running. Your attention to my writing has sparked some thoughts within me. All those events in this life that I'm trying to suppress—from now on, I'll try to write about everything.
Well, imagine sometimes I desperately want to have you close, but at that very moment it's impossible by any means. What do I do then? I write you letters. My letters become companions to my solitude.
These days... I'm troubling you so much! In my attempts to pester you, I've neglected caring for myself. I'm thinking I won't bother you too much anymore. From now on, when you come to mind, I'll just write, write and keep it all to myself. You are the strange bright face of my devastated, fragile life! I too am yours—everything I have, everything I am, is yours.
The strange bright face of a devastated fragile life, the classical union of hunger and joy—even if I touch you in passing, I know you are beyond touch. Yet sleepless nights chase after certain moments, and sometimes you become an intensely secret weeping. Those tears make both memory and happiness bleed. Saying "I love you" again and again, somewhere I know I come to a halt—before inertia breaks, you become a mirage! I understand clouds have gathered somewhere. "I love you" can no longer be said!
You know, when you touch me, I forget the entire world!
The one I nurture constantly within my heart—I will never become their destination; at day's end, they return to their own people! Society's rules are brutally cruel! Perhaps your society doesn't know that even when doors are locked, windows still open, and just like that, the heart's longing shows us every path!
Someday I will bring you to me to love with an open heart. This is called "desire."

When I make mistakes, ignore them completely and say nothing more to me. Speaking this way puts me in doubt myself. I have no compulsion to please you, just as you have none. So in this space I want genuine, authentic opinions. Isn't this natural?
Everything I say and feel comes from being a victim of circumstances. This is why I want to understand life through your eyes. Much of it will align with my thoughts, some won't. I'll think about those things, make you think too.
Being with you brings me joy. This staying close—it means turning again and again toward my own life. It's also a chance for living! Before I met you, I had never learned to immerse myself in solitude. You scold me sometimes; I think of you all the time. I have so much work to do, yet I forget everything and see only you. Tell me—what do you gain by harming such a good, devoted girl like me? Don't think me a fool, though!
Whatever serves people well, whatever harms no one even slightly—there's nothing wrong with such things. Still, you don't say "I love you" on your own—I'm the one who always says it first! Should I laugh or cry? The one I love, I keep telling them, "Say 'I love you'!" Even if they don't love me back, I love them. After I say "I love you," it's fine if you don't say it back.
You do love me—I can sense and understand this. If you don't feel something similar, then I'll know my love is lacking something. Around you, I have some private longings, some emptiness born of deep affection. I have such urges to touch you, to reach for you—that's why all these needless complaints! The ground on which two people love is different for each. We respect each other—nothing could matter more than this.
Come, let us die together before we live!
Two. When suffering comes, I don't flee from it—I feel it. Suffering never breaks me; rather, it keeps building me. To finish me, you'd have to kill me outright—there's no other way to destroy me. When I feel deeply alone, if I don't write down what's happening in my mind, I only want to kill myself. Being able to write it down is joy.
However I may feel, let my entire lifespan become yours. May you live until the moment before the world's destruction. No one possesses the power to break my person. I understand this in so many ways. May you always stay safe from all harm.
Never speak to me of death. All life is essential—those lives that exist without harming anyone. You yourself don't know with how much strength you're living! Don't bring such terrible thoughts into your head. Rather, let some of my lifespan become yours. We two will pray for each other that we may stay healthy, stay well.
With you, in my mind, I have countless matters that no one else in the world knows. How we've spent time with each other—only the Creator knows such things. I don't trust people at all, yet somehow, I feel like trusting you. In this life, I've never harmed anyone until now. How many more days will I even live! I want to spend the rest of my life this way too.
I don't know how much I'll be able to tell you, how much you'll understand of me. When the mood strikes, I'll share stories of my life with you. People have caused me great suffering, wounded me deeply, tormented me terribly. In all circumstances I've remained natural, and I still do. I only want to see what people do to me, and how far beyond all that I can go. I only try to ensure that people, seeing me, cannot understand what's inside me. If someone once manages to understand my inner self, from that day it will become easy for them to try defeating me.
The fascinating thing is that those who considered me weak, thought of me as a solitary soul, and tried in various ways to harm me, harass me, torment me day after day—they now, whenever they see which direction I'm walking, turn and walk the other way. This silent submission of theirs, this bowing down, brings me mental peace. My life is not normal, but my abnormalities have never harmed anyone to this day.
I have never loved anyone, never been involved with anyone. I only thought: what if I cause them trouble? My path through life, my lived existence—everything is difficult and complex. Even when my heart desires it, I cannot easily mix with others, cannot walk alongside anyone. There are some people in my life who love me without any self-interest, who care for me, respect me. I too try to honor them.
By "man" I have begun to understand you, and by "trust" I mean you as well. And if there is such a thing as love, then that too is for you... The very thought of having to lose you makes me deeply melancholy, makes me feel I'll lose you even before I've truly found you. I often feel that everything that was once simple has now become complicated!
Perhaps I don't even have the right to love anyone! What a futile life!
I will have to cry. I will weep for a long time. If I cannot cry, restlessness will work within me constantly. Life has taught me that this is the only way to keep myself calm in any situation.
I have never turned to anyone with my deeply personal sorrows. If I burden others with my own pain, I won't be able to rebuild myself. All my deprivations, sufferings, humiliations—I carry them within me. These are my strength. But now when my heart grows heavy, I think of you. Isn't this what we call love?
Thought: Eight Hundred Fifty-Six

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I love you based on what I feel. I cannot do anything beyond this, because I have never walked beyond these boundaries. Apart from my studies, I have never really engaged myself in much else until now. I have no inclination toward other things, no understanding of them. Whatever I can feel about you, that's exactly what you see. So if I ever make a mistake anywhere, you must correct me. That is your responsibility.
The few mistakes you've pointed out to me—I will remember each one of them, will never forget. When you say something once, it stays with me; you won't need to repeat it. Even your smallest word carries great importance for me. What I can do, I'll say yes; what I cannot, I'll say no. There is no pretense in me. So even when forced, acting is something I simply cannot do well.
Well, there's a question circling in my mind. By now you must have a fair understanding that I'm quite foolish, that there's really nothing by way of brains in my head. I myself have said that apart from studies and a little drawing, I can do nothing else. Still, why do you sometimes ask me to write? By saying this, are you perhaps trying to get me accustomed to the work of making others read books?
Don't forget to write to me. I feel terribly restless when I don't receive texts from you. There's something I want you to know: nothing in my life ever gets properly organized, and if I had to organize myself to do something with you, I might eventually lose the courage to love at all. It's impossible for me to survive anywhere by being what I'm not. I love the way you think. It's precisely because you can think this way that I love you — otherwise, is there really a shortage of men?
We live with certain realities that none of us have the courage to acknowledge, instead covering up so much of what we actually experience by presenting imaginary this-and-that. When you can think by seeing reality clearly from very close up, it's there that your thoughts draw me in.
On Facebook, I only watch cultural videos and paintings; apart from your writing, I don't really read anyone else's work. If I didn't have to run around with studies and drawing, I would try to read many books, many writers' works, and I would give very careful feedback on each of your pieces. You wouldn't have to ask me for feedback. Since meeting you, sometimes I don't understand myself at all.
Little by little, all the familiar faces are racing away behind me in my life! Only you remain, staying very clearly in every space. Is this my fault? I don't want to love anyone this much, so now I'm afraid — if this madness, this emotion ever returns as pain, I don't know what I'll do then. There's no fault of yours in this; throughout my life, even in crowds, I've somehow felt terribly alone. You came, and after that, everything became... I don't know how!
I'm not as you see me. What I'm really like — I can't show you that at all, no matter how hard I try! I'm experiencing a kind of pain. I can't bear to see you in pain. I keep thinking, I'm suffering alone — isn't that enough? Why are you in pain too? Then I feel like a criminal. I feel responsible for your suffering.
I don't want there to be any wall between us. Suddenly it occurs to me — why are you indulging me? I'm loving you, I like you — I understand this much. But why you're going along with all this from me, that's what I want to know. This question has come to mind many times, but there's never any answer. I miss you and keep on missing you. I feel like crying terribly.
When I miss you a lot, I scold you as much as I please. You tell me — who else can I scold? My heart doesn't burn for anyone else; it burns for you, so I scold you. I'm not doing any of this deliberately — it's all happening by itself! What should I do, tell me? Among so many people, you come and make me alone. And even if you wanted to, you can't come close whenever you please; but when you do come, then even if I wanted to, you can't go back anymore.
Thinking all these topsy-turvy thoughts makes my heart heavy, and so I feel hurt by you. If I don't write to you whatever comes to mind, my heart grows heavier still and continues to worsen. All right, go on, I won't behave so badly anymore. Sorry... This thing I just said—"I won't"—I truly have no control over this promise. But I'll try very hard. Sorry again.
One thing about you is that you never say anything simply; you speak in such roundabout ways that I truly don't understand. When I want to know something, you never give me a proper answer. I get angry. In my anger, I write you whatever comes to mind. Then you get angry too. After that I get angry at myself. What is this thing, really? And what's the cause of it? Well, should I sit here inventing reasons if there might not be any reason at all?
You don't tell me anything. You don't even get very angry. This too makes me angry. You're not getting angry, and even about that I'm picking a fight! How strange! I really will go mad! Oh, nonsense! I've been mad for a long time already—what new thing could happen to me now! Though it's better that you don't get angry. Since I still can't quite understand you, if you get upset it seems difficult to appease you, and later, worrying about it, all my eating, drinking, and work would come to a halt.
I dream that you'll walk a long way. I'll point you out and say, if you speak to him about me, he'll recognize me. Won't that be wonderful then, tell me? I'm here beside you, and I'll remain. I can touch you—in this very attainment I'll walk far. I never once thought that I would love someone, trust someone. But look, I'm moving toward you in a kind of blind faith.
Watching you, many people who carry great importance now seem utterly insignificant to me. Let my troubles remain with you. Ignoring so much else, I want to hold you close. I'll stay. You'll stay too. With us will stay our creations. Along the arrow of that creation, we two will walk together.
Reflection: Eight Hundred Fifty-Seven

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When I cannot like everything about my own birth-giving mother, how can I expect that I'll like everything about a person who doesn't even know me? How will he take responsibility for pleasing me? Why would he? Does he work under me as a servant? Or do we have that level of friendship or relationship?
Even if I like that person very much, I must keep in mind which aspects of him I like. If those qualities weren't in him, forget liking him—I wouldn't even know him! He may have many aspects that I won't like. He exists with all of those too! Perhaps if those were removed, the person might also lose the very things I do like. If I don't have a personal acquaintance with someone I admire, let me remember this: he may not be someone I'd actually like at all—he might only be someone whose work I like. A person you like and a person whose work you like are not the same thing. I don't pry into and ponder over everything about the person I like. Never!
Whatever good there is to be taken from someone, I take only that much. Beyond this, what anyone is like — that's none of my concern. Does my mother like everything about me? Who is more one's own than one's mother? Why must I make you like everything about me? Are you closer to me than my own mother? Or do I gain something by winning your approval? If you decide to dislike everything about me because you dislike some aspect of me, then don't come to me with all that whining and complaining. Did I call you and bring you here? The door you entered through — it's still open!
Facebook is a place of performance. What people are here is not what they actually are. I know many real devils who are perfect angels on Facebook. I know many wonderful people whose behavior on Facebook is quite terrible. When you can't know people even after meeting them, how can I form opinions about someone without meeting them at all? Facebook is modern humanity's masquerade hall. Nothing more than that. How people present themselves here is not what they truly are. For various reasons — and sometimes for no reason at all — people express themselves in different ways. Without meeting someone directly, nothing can be said about them.
Those I like, I generally don't go near. Because they might not like me. If I go close and they push me away, or if I'm hurt by some behavior of theirs, then I might feel bad — so out of fear, I don't go. The person and the person's creation are completely different things. Absolutely different things. What do I care what the person is like? Am I going to marry them that I need to worry so much about it? Or will I have to go to hell for their bad deeds? Or am I their schoolmaster? Or am I their boss? If the condition for liking someone is that they must always behave according to my preferences, then I have no need to like them at all.
Liking, loving, being in love — these are mental problems. Why should someone else take responsibility for my problems?
Facebook's real name should be Fakebook! Judging anyone by what they do here is completely impossible. People wear masks for various needs; sometimes they wear masks unnecessarily, just for the joy of it. If you don't have the vision to distinguish between mask and face, then you're in trouble! Suppose someone buys literature books, takes pictures, and uploads them to Facebook. If I then ask, "Are you planning to do a PhD?" they might get annoyed, thinking: buying books costs money, requires desire — this has nothing to do with actually reading books, let alone doing a PhD! They might also think I'm being sarcastic. How they take me is their business. But when I don't even have permission to enter someone's home, asking about what's in their kitchen hardly falls within any bounds of decency. By what logic does someone like me — a complete stranger who didn't even buy those books for them — inquire about their personal matters?
When someone uploads photos of books on the philosophy and psychology of suicide, should I then ask, "Brother, when are you planning to commit suicide? Do let me know! If I find out, I'll hop on the first-class express to heaven!" You might say, what's wrong with asking? What's wrong with knowing? Yes, you're right. There's no problem for you, but there might be for him, isn't that so? Or must he risk being troubled just to please you? Even if there's no trouble, there might be objections. Can we ever know from a distance what bothers or embarrasses a person? Another thing—never force yourself upon someone and say, "Brother, I really like you; therefore, now you should behave this way or that way!" If your liking or disliking makes no difference to him, then why do you spout such nonsense? Do you truly have nothing better to do after eating and drinking? Or do you lack sense? Or do you have everything except shame? Stay content with the person you like for exactly the reason you like them. He didn't land in this world with the responsibility of becoming your complete preferred package!
You cannot ask anyone about their personal matters if you don't know them. You may like them, but still you cannot. Perhaps you wouldn't mind if some stranger asked you such information, but they might well mind. Will you also decide what they should or shouldn't mind? What might trouble you for hours might cause them distress with just a whisper. Will you then come to rescue them from that trouble? You won't even be found then. Or even if found, you might lack the power to rescue them from that trouble! It's far better to understand a jackal's hatred and stay alert than to suffer from a donkey's love.
If you dislike someone, avoid them. If someone doesn't appeal to you, don't look at them. Neither you nor they will end up on the streets if you don't look.
If you like someone, you won't like everything about them. If someone gets paid, achieves some purpose, or faces some obligation by making you like everything about them, then they might dance to your tune; otherwise, there's no point expecting this from them.
You simply cannot ask about anyone's personal matters unless they give you permission or you have a personal relationship.
Your disliking someone doesn't destroy them. So there's no need to buzz around their ears like a fly, marketing your dislike.
Almost everything you see on Facebook is a mask. If you don't know someone personally, you might never get the chance to see their real face. Never judge the face by the mask, never distrust the mask by the face.
For me, it's more important to live by my own intelligence than to follow your advice and become immortal. Keep this in mind when you visit my wall—if you can't keep it in mind, don't come at all.
If pride is the root of downfall, and if I am proud, then when I fall, it will be me who falls, not you. There's no need for you to weep and wail about it.
I never give explanations in response to those to whom I'm not obligated to justify myself—in fact, I find it quite irritating. Explaining oneself to just anyone is tantamount to making oneself vulnerable and miserable.
Showing humility, courtesy, and politeness to the senseless, shameless, and ill-mannered leads to trouble. They don't deserve such treatment. I've taught students for many years. I know very well that even if a monkey wears pants and a shirt, a monkey still needs the stick.
Here's some good news for you! To understand the above matters, you don't need to be a rocket scientist! The small amount of brain power required for this—you have all of it in your head! Thank you!
**Thought: Eight Hundred Fifty-Eight

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One. Just as there's danger in removing one's clothes before someone who has no need to see you undressed, so too there's danger in baring one's soul to someone who has no need to see your heart laid bare.
There isn't much difference between "I'll delete it as soon as I see it, won't show it to anyone" and "I'll digest it as soon as I hear it, won't tell anyone."
Two. I bought some books—you can see them.
Thanks to Raupyarup, Bangladesh's largest and most trusted online store for silver jewelry. All the books I've bought in the past few months have been purchased courtesy of Raupyarup, my younger brother and his wife's online silver jewelry store. Even the money needed to pay StreamYard so that you can enjoy my career chats free of cost—that too is provided by this very Raupyarup!
Now you tell me—shouldn't I promote the establishment that sponsors my beloved work? Should I dance to your tune instead? Note that negative comments about Raupyarup or unnecessary ha-ha reactions will result in immediate and careful blocking from this page. Unnecessary jumping around on my wall is prohibited. If you have idle time and want to jump, go jump somewhere else.
Buying books requires money. Career chats also require money. All this needs sponsors. Money doesn't rain down from moonlight. I mention my sponsor on my page (not yours), and I'll do it as much as I please. If you can't tolerate this, there's no need to force yourself to bear it. All options for not bearing it remain open. Thank you.
Three. I laugh whether people praise me or criticize me.
Where no one is indispensable to our lives, the question of tolerating unnecessary people simply doesn't arise!
Show compassion and you'll get beaten!
Four. The pain a creative person experiences in creating something can be compared to labor pains. The difference is that in labor pains there's physical agony, and the one giving birth can cry out and say, "I'm in so much pain!"
On the other hand, the infinite mental anguish of creating something—this element doesn't belong here, it would look better placed there; not like this, it would appear much better that way; should I remove that scene? No, leave it, it turned out fine; I can do better than this; why can't I think of anything despite all this pondering; I've been sitting here so long, yet I can't draw anything worthwhile...these relentless blows and counter-blows of thought are no less painful than giving birth to a child.
The creative person cannot cry out, "I'm in terrible pain giving birth!" and so this suffering goes unnoticed by anyone. Rather, when shared with ordinary people, that creative person is told instead, "What's all this drama about, friend? Such a small task—I could do it much better if I wanted. But I won't. Why would I work without getting paid? Where's the time for all this? Do you take me for a fool?" I've even received comments like this under my writing: Instead of typing away for free like this, you could have made good money sitting at Nilkhet intersection with a typewriter.
I'm not surprised by any of this, of course. Those who don't understand something, who don't even try to understand, who don't value it—when they comment on it, this is exactly what they'll say. It's only natural. Add to that the eternal rage and envy of the incapable! Still, it would be better if we didn't comment on things we don't understand or only half-understand.
Children come into the world through the heavenly physical pleasure called union. On the other hand, all creation comes into the world through the transcendent mental satisfaction called inspiration. The joy of sexual union and the joy of creation provide relief of roughly the same order. The exhaustion from both doesn't plunge one into depression either.
When a creative person succeeds in creating their work exactly as envisioned, they experience an indescribable happiness. Let me mention somewhat tangentially here—if you observe, you'll see that most creative people in the world are roughly divided into three categories: The unmarried. People who spend their entire lives alone. Those who, after marriage, retreat even further into seclusion. The journey of creation is a terribly solitary journey. So if you want to be happy in life, it's better not to marry someone creative.
So, as I was saying! Every day thousands of ordinary people give birth to children from their own bodies. And from mind, emotion, thought, sensitivity, eyes, and hands are born the children of creative people.
Becoming parents and becoming creative people are not the same thing at all. Anyone can become a parent whenever they want, at any age; but one cannot become creative simply by wanting to—that's truly impossible! Creativity requires love and dedication; one must have the resources for creation within.
When I or any admin of my page blocks someone, sometimes for reasons, sometimes for no reason at all, we bear no anger toward them, but we do feel hurt and irritation.
When someone's presence becomes a source of irritation for you and you're not obligated to tolerate their presence, or when their presence or absence makes no difference to you, what would you do? Ask yourself this question, and you'll find your answer. We're all busy with our respective work, aren't we? Who likes those who go out of their way to irritate others?
I didn't speak correctly when I said we block people for no reason at all. We sometimes mistakenly block one or two people. Mistake is also a reason, not unreasonable at all. Due to lack of time, we're sorry that we can't take legal action against you either. Otherwise, considering the amount of false and speculative information some of you write to spread hatred on my wall and elsewhere, lawsuits could be filed morning and evening.
A medieval Bengali poet Mark Zuckerberg had rightly proclaimed: "Above all is peace and truth, there is nothing higher." You are my beloved people. One can survive even after losing love, but surviving becomes very difficult when peace is lost.
I am a small person, with very limited mental capacity. I can write a little and speak modestly. I love you all. Those who have gone and will go to my page's blocklist without caring for my love can, if they wish, read my writings from my website and listen to my words from my YouTube channel. My page is not essential for viewing my posts.
A couple of people have indeed gone to that list despite caring. Please don't harbor resentment. I made this mistake solely for the sake of peace. I know that just 2 boys in a class can ruin the entire class's peace and discipline. When those two turn the class upside down, the rest sit quietly watching. Then, for the sake of the class's peace, when the teacher removes those two from class, he sometimes mistakenly removes a couple more as well. The act is wrong, but the class remains calm.
Placing my hand on my (own) heart, I tell everyone, believe me, I love you!
Thought: Eight Hundred and Fifty-Nine

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One. Looking at this faithful body today, I bid farewell! We two have walked side by side for many, many ages. In this life, there have been many people who accompanied me and then left me. Only this body remained, enduring everything. In this life, who was a greater lover than the body!
Today the time has come to leave this friend too! This is such an unfamiliar time, truly I have never seen such a time before! Today I feel as though at a very young age—what age even... I don't remember—when I fell in love, when I didn't understand love, when I made love, when foolish love kept me alive, when I constantly sought life by binding love, when the promise of more love than love itself repeatedly broke its dam, when my soul trembled only in intense love, when even madness became simple and pulled life along, only then did this happen—I told love, don't leave, whatever happens, still remain! What I told love then, I tell the body today! Love left me then, and today I am leaving the body. That's the only difference!
Believe me,

after leaving,

I won't cry thinking of the world,

I'll cry only thinking of you.
Two. It forbids you to do something, then scolds you if you don't do it.
When I go to clean the bathroom, it says, no need to clean the bathroom. When I don't clean it, it says again, I got my son married, yet I still have to clean the bathroom myself!
When she doesn't eat, it says, the daughter-in-law doesn't eat anything. When she eats, it says, we have to force-feed her. I got my son married, yet I have to cook and feed the daughter-in-law. Though it's the daughter-in-law who does all the cooking, none of the neighbors know this.
Earlier I thought this person was perhaps completely cold like water. Now I understand, this person is hotter than fire itself!
The truth is, everyone seems wonderful before marriage!

And after marriage, everyone else seems wonderful!

People reveal themselves at two moments: when they're in trouble and when they get married.
Everyone at the in-laws' house says, "What work does the daughter-in-law really do?"

I go to the kitchen and find towers upon towers of dirty dishes piled high!
Three. On this night...

Some people's love breaks after twelve years!

Some people's households fall apart in twelve minutes!

The night deepens, sorrow deepens...
Four. I read 'Jagori' again. Who would say this is Satinath Bhaduri's first novel! There's not a trace of a new writer's awkwardness in the entire work! Reading such writing makes one lose even the courage to write! I wonder, how does someone write such things? Doesn't it hurt to write? Don't writers know that not everyone in the world is strong, that some are completely unsuited for this world? I couldn't create such a character despite trying so hard! I wonder, do they also cry while writing?
I cry, I'm afraid. Don't those whose pens produce such work suffer? This character Bilu—I don't even know him! Then why did I weep so much for him? Who is he to me? Where did this pull toward him come from?
Why do I feel so terrible? Some are born only to weep. Did I have to be among them? I can't explain any of this to anyone! That I cry reading stories—those are just stories! But in reality, those I feel bad for, those I love, those I feel deep compassion for—I can't speak a word to them. Whatever I say, I say it all wrong. So they think I'm mad, though I can speak coherently too. Why can't I speak coherently when facing someone dear?
In this life I couldn't explain anything to anyone; instead, some people misunderstood me completely! When I try to explain, they misunderstand even more. I'm exhausted! Unable to explain, I now just stay silent. What's the point of trying? I tried so much! What came of all that effort? I'm not saying I need friends. But I don't need so many enemies either! What do they gain by making me their enemy? If they looked a little, they'd find far worthier enemies than me! Then why must it be me?
My words accumulate inside me, I can't say anything. Some hesitation prevents me from speaking openly to anyone! Words pile up like mountains. I can't even cry like before. I never realized before how much strength crying requires. Lately my chest aches terribly.
I am an emotionally failed human being. Providence sent me with an ocean of emotion but didn't send a single person who would value even a penny's worth of this emotion. I can't hold onto anyone, can't even use force! I still haven't learned to truly possess. But tell me, can someone you must forcibly hold onto ever be a beloved?
Everywhere, there are certain people for whom something stirs within the heart! A feeling, almost like magic. I weep wondering whether they suffer. I find joy in thinking they are well. I cannot explain it any better than this. I am not good at making things clear.
I never cry before anyone, only smile. So perhaps everyone thinks me very strong, and they go their separate ways. No one comes to stay with me, only to collect memories. I cannot ask anyone to remain. No one seems to even consider staying with me—everyone leaves. Perhaps seeing me makes them want to leave immediately. They do leave, and they forget. Everyone forgets, only I cannot forget. I forget none of them. My heart burns terribly.
No one stays with me, no one wants to be with me. I am such a person that there is nothing about being with me.
Thought: Eight hundred sixty

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One. As a people, our cuteness knows no bounds.
When we watch Sani Didi's life-intimate short films, we wonder in amazement: doesn't Didi's husband see these things?

When we watch Sushanta Dada's uneducated writings and speeches, we wonder in amazement: doesn't Dada's wife see these things?
What do we really want? Didi's husband? Or Didi's creation?

What do we really want? Dada's wife? Or Dada's creation?
Don't we sin when we tug at someone else's husband and wife like this? Don't we have even a little brain in our hearts? (Does the brain reside in the heart, or in the liver? I can't quite remember; maybe it's in the liver after all! If any of you know, kindly inform me.)
How much more must we grow to understand that Jasim-Alamgir-Razzak-Faruk-Manna didn't truly make their homes and cars by pushing handcarts!?
Two. Who is a friend?
A friend is one to whom you can confess without reserve: actually, they didn't annoy me, they just knocked to make conversation. I got terribly irritated by that knock only because I didn't like their face.
Three. Those who grew up singing while bathing because poverty meant no latch on the bathroom door—they're the ones who later become owners of cars and houses by marketing their inbox to the public.
Four. Cheap minds, cheap ends.
Five. My eyes are full of sleep, but much writing remains. I hear there will be exams next month too. To my left: about ten scattered books, a keypad phone and a smartphone.
A list of everything I must do today is tucked under my glasses, right at hand. Beside it, tangled earphones...a newly bought brush...key ring...hair lotion...
At my feet, a decent-sized stand fan. In one corner of the bed, my saffron kurta, which I took off just moments ago. Beside it, the quilt I wrap myself in, bunched up.
Last night I slept only three and a half hours. I always sleep little at night, but this little! From six in the morning until half past nine. At six, while having tea, I was watching a live show. I fell asleep in that very state.
I was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and palazzo pants, took them off and became naked. Only today did I first notice that my single bed is as vast as an entire map! I'm lying in one corner of the bed like a new tenant. On my table: scissors, glucose...
No, I can no longer move my pen — I feel so exhausted. I've just lain down after eating my fill. I need to bathe now, I need sleep, and I need to sort out the jumbled thoughts in my head. All three tasks are equally urgent at this moment.
My eyes are closing... I've never seen such sleep before in these sleepless eyes! Am I then...!!
Wait, wait! Listen, at least let me put on my clothes. A naked corpse would look terrifying! Please, listen to me. I'm not like other women — I need very little time to get ready.

Wait... my clothes...
Six. These days there's no trust in relationships, no relationships in trust. When I see someone desperately trying to get entangled in relationships, I'm very surprised.
They say they want to get involved in relationships, but what they actually want is to fall in love. To put it more clearly, they want to come close to each other only to fulfill certain needs. They come, and then comes conflict and discord. When love brings no peace to one another, when it batters with the blows of words, when harsh language creates discomfort, when it sets one adrift in an ocean of doubt — I see no point in having or keeping such love.
Yes, many of us might say, something good could happen in the future, right? Why think only of the bad! If we just stay quiet for a moment and think about the surrounding circumstances, about the relationships of our current times, we'll find many answers.
We can never love anyone completely. If we could, we wouldn't hurl so many arrows of accusation at each other. To love means to love someone with all their faults and virtues. We've only learned to fall in love with beauty; we still haven't learned to love the unbeautiful.
When I don't even know how to read my own mind, understand it, or keep it peaceful, how foolish is it to expect someone else to be exactly like me! So rather than creating unrest by finding fault with others ten times over, it's much better to think once about our own mistakes and live in peace.
But relationships don't always mean bitterness. Often we see that one of two people shows great patience or understands situations well. Those relationships are wonderful and they last too.
If we discussed relationships with thousands of people in the world, millions of arguments and counter-arguments would emerge. If we assume that everyone is right from their own position, then our respect for others will grow. But before that, it's important to respect ourselves. The day we can properly understand ourselves, only then will we be able to understand others to some extent. We don't understand ourselves, yet we become desperate to understand others!
Whatever else may happen by force, relationships cannot. Whatever else may happen by constantly finding fault, one cannot love someone selflessly. Unless at least one of two people moves away from their stubborn position, whatever else may happen by force, those two cannot stay together.
Thought: Eight Hundred Sixty-One

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One. We all have our own story. We have our own beliefs and thoughts. They are as they are, and we are exactly like them. They live the way they do, and we live exactly the same way. What they are not, we are not either. Living like them, we eventually shape ourselves to be like them. What they are, that's essentially what we are.
When we want to know someone, we tell them: tell me your life's story. Tell me what you think, what you like, what you dislike — tell me everything. Tell me where you came from, where you've arrived — tell me both. I want to hear about you.
Now, only if he speaks about himself with complete candor will we truly know him. What he conceals can only be surmised, never truly known. Except for himself, whatever anyone else in the world might say about him remains largely conjectural. What is spoken through conjecture is often wrong and fabricated.
If we truly wish to know him, we must let him speak. Whatever he may say, he cannot be silenced, nor can he be compelled to speak according to our desires. Most importantly, we must ensure complete freedom and safety for all his words. It is more urgent to survive in silence than to achieve immortality through speech.
Each of us is a biography, a story. What we feel and do not feel, what we believe and do not believe, what we have witnessed and have not witnessed through experience, what we know and do not know, what we think and do not think, what we do and do not do—all of these things both break us and remake us. This breaking and remaking continues throughout life.
Considering physical constitution and other needs, there are hardly any differences among us, but the stories of our lives transform us into distinct individuals. Different people, different stories, different lives. In this sense, everyone in this world is unique.
Only when we express ourselves exactly as we are do we become ourselves. At all other times, we become like someone else. We may lose everything, but the stories of our lives will never disappear. Whether we know them or not, tell them or not, reveal them or not, the stories remain—their existence never dissolves into oblivion.
People change, but the place where they were, that place or that story, remains intact. If we ourselves forget our stories or choose not to recall them, then when today becomes a story someday, will we still consign it to oblivion? If this is how it is, then this living of ours, this being alive, this alternation of joy and sorrow, this sound and silence, all of this—is it all false?
Whatever we have, had, and will have; whatever we are, were, and will be—none of it is false. Hiding something does not allow us to deny it to ourselves. Our truths emerge without our knowing. Even when we don't want them to, our stories speak of us. What is true remains true whether expressed or unexpressed. Come, let us live in such a way that we can at least comb our hair in comfort when we stand before the mirror!
Two. There are some things you need to know.
Read my writing, it will lift your spirits.
If you don't like it, simply unfollow the page. Simple! I won't come to your home to fetch you, won't send police to bring you back, will never ask you to follow my page. You can live in peace. To this day, I haven't asked a single person to follow this page; instead, I block many people every day, and despite all this, I've crossed one million; even if the follower count drops to one hundred, I'll continue the same way.
Whether you leave or stay is your need or desire. It makes no difference to me.
This is not arrogance—it is love of peace.
What is on this page? Only my writing, only my perspective. Nothing else! This is all there is here! If you want something beyond this, you won't find it here.
I don't write keeping anyone in mind, nor could I. If what you need isn't here, it would be better if you left. I don't write to satisfy your demands.
Funny thing is, reading your comments, I've seen that I have many, many pieces on the very topics you want me to write about. Quite lengthy pieces, and very useful ones. I've deliberately and consciously used the phrase "very useful" in that last sentence. But you won't read them — you're so busy! I'm your domestic help, you pay me monthly wages, and I must fetch and deliver everything to you! You look for mathematics in love posts, and love in mathematics posts. What adorable little boxes you are!
Most people want inspirational writing, don't they? In Bangladesh, to my knowledge, no one has written or spoken on this topic even close to my level, let alone surpassing it. So why don't you read those pieces! Why don't you listen to those! Everything's free, doesn't cost a penny!
If you're annoyed, don't come to my wall. To escape notifications, unfollow the page. There's really nothing more to say!
Why am I writing? Why so many posts? What's wrong with me? Why so much love? Why am I agitated? Who has hurt me? Why sad posts all day? Don't I have work? Doesn't my wife see all this? Why am I still hung up on my ex? I'm married, yet...? Has my page/ID been hacked? How can I write so "irresponsibly" from my position? Why do I post such pathetic, lame content? Why am I making you all depressed with emotional posts? Have I been rejected... and so on and so forth! What does making such comments actually accomplish? What do you gain from all this? I truly don't understand.
Do you have a personal relationship with me? Have you socialized with me? Have I socialized with you? On what grounds do you judge me like this?
You're devaluing yourself. Don't like it? Then don't look at me, that's it! Did I grab your collar to make you look at me? Or fall at your feet? Can't you unfollow, block, and such? Learn from someone, look it up on Google. Save yourself, save me too! The equation is simple!
You don't love me, don't respect me, don't consider me an idol, didn't come for motivation, aren't following for BCS advice, someone didn't tell you to follow me... blah blah blah... What do I care about all this? Why do you try to bind me with all this pointless talk? Am I your domestic fowl, obligated to lay eggs at your whim?
I write, don't I! How will you find me in my writing? Do writers exist in their writing? Or even if they do, can you ask such questions without personal acquaintance?
I've written millions of words so far. In just the "Plasters of the Thought Wall" series alone, there are now over eight and a half lakh words, never mind the others! Tell me yourselves — is it possible for me to be present in all of them? Is this a newspaper page that you're desperately searching for such authenticity?
Let me say this again: my writing is merely writing. I am not in it, neither are you, yet we are all there. If I am present in any piece, I will write that myself in the post. If I don't write it, then don't make a single comment dragging me into it, or any member of my family, or my livelihood, or anything of mine—needlessly mentioning words like BCS/government jobs and such. Such comments only reveal your lack of wisdom.
How many times must I say these things? What do you gain by diminishing yourself like this in my eyes?

I respect you—please hold onto that position! When you annoy me, does the respect remain? Coming to every single post and making the same type of comments over and over, irritating me! What am I to do but block you? What would you do if you were in my place?
Stay well.