In a patch of space, in a corner of dark alleys, twisting, not knowing where the ends are. The room is no less dark. Only the light from behind the small window up there that the line penetrated, stroked the dust flying, greeting paper sheets piled, paper friends, the ink and pen, the place to write stories. There was a happy smile. There is no prison there. No fear at all is heaven.
He has suffered defeat, error. Who makes sure all the way of life in the days flows, or has he ever cultivated love, set the heart. Is it true? There is no grudge there, no sense of reprisal, demand, or self-defense. Or is it free? From envy to being. Is with a smile and calm, he lived the twists and turns of life.
The interpreter is born out of nothing, he is a historical being.
Because interpretation is always evolving with space and time, that’s why there is no fixed standard interpretation all the time. We know every writing and commentary is put forward in the language, and the language in its belief forms history.
An interpretation is a moving ocean of meaning, it is not a limit of meaning. The movement is almost endless so it can not be fully controlled by the creator.
Because there are people who are entrapped seduction, not infrequently also fall in love because of writing. These are just words. Sometimes unconsciously, words are small bridges that can be explored to search for what is there.
Because of the decisive reader. Each time it can be a multi-layered meaning. So it becomes a never-ending struggle. A Poet (often) speaks the truth, but we can not expect the world to change just because of words alone.
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