I am the fish whom the eagle caught in his claws and lifted in the sky. A second before I died, I thought I could fly.
I am Heathcliff, the one who could never forgive Catherine all his life but knew that a slight brush of her fingers on his cheek would have melted away the anger.
I am a dollarbird who does not belong to a piece of land, who could see the world from the blue sky and realize that it all seems the same from there – an upturned sky in the night and green blocks of unsolved jigsaw in the mornings.
I am Achilles, who was invincible but with a weakness. His heel is my heart.
I am a witness of the holocaust. The one who saw humans dancing with death, in the warmth of burning flesh.
I am a harbinger of changing times. An amused spectator who watches a dust particle turning into a galaxy and forgets everything.
I am Krishna. The last child who was saved before it was too late. The last one to get out before the gates were slammed shut.
I am an amalgam of Howard Roark and Peter Keating – sometimes a man who couldn’t be and doesn’t know it and sometimes a man who couldn’t be and knows it.
I am the moon who is imperfectly beautiful.
I am a Phoenix, whose destiny is to rise from his own ashes.
I am a promising pariah.
I am the soul who feeds the master when he flies to him. The soul who does not remember anything when he returns back.