In your search novel episode 1 It was an excuse to go searching I have been heading towards you all my life.
Sometimes a person is free from all worries and has no fear, sorrow, or anxiety, and the narrator writes that in such a situation, some nameless pain or unknown emptiness awakens him and he seeks its remedy in wealth, lust, physical and psychological comfort, or worldly pleasure. But that pain does not disappear, but rather becomes stronger and more powerful with time.
2 The same thing happened to me. Life was passing very peacefully. The noisy bustle of youth had subsided. The sorrow of the working man had passed away. Business had come to a standstill.
The place of misery and misery had been replaced by prosperity. The house had also been settled. In other words, prosperity and ease had set up camp. The narrator was playing the flute of peace and tranquility from far and wide.
One day, a dream arose, then she became a child. When she became a child, her heart became restless. The heart was restless for no reason. In such a busy life, I did not understand the reason for the restlessness of the heart. When the restlessness increased to the limit, what was the means of entertaining the heart? The heart is the only thing that will keep on rejoicing. After all, even after enduring so many accidents, it had become restless, but the disease continued to worsen. As I searched for some medicine, I did not understand what it was.
3
I have heard that those who seek such a discovery turn to ruins, so by chance or by chance, some friends planned an archaeological tour. By chance because history was my favorite subject and archaeology was a subject related to history, and by chance because the heart's desolation increases in ruins. So we headed to the ruins of Harappa. I don't know what incentive was forcing us to wander through these ruins. To find out, we planned a trip to alone next time.
4
We were not yet so deeply immersed in thought that a person becomes alienated from himself that we saw a shadow waving in front of us. Looking carefully, we felt that perhaps we ourselves were standing in front of ourselves, as if we were looking at ourselves in a mirror. We asked, "Who are you?" The answer was, "I am Nasih, your friend. You do not know me, but I have known you for a long time." "Then, without waiting for my next question, he said spontaneously. You have come to discover ancient man in these archaeological sites. But in fact, it is your nostalgia for the past that is leading you here. In fact, you are searching for yourself here." "Then tell us how we should begin our search, "Read the book of the heart," he replied, and walked away from there with light steps. The poet also supported this.
Occasionally, I come to the old office.
5 For centuries, the heart's static door opened with a creak in the silence of the night. A gust of wind filled with imprisonment, suffocation and suffocation welcomed me from within. Inside was the deep darkness of darkness. I could not see my hand. When my eyes became somewhat accustomed, I saw that inside was a desert. On one side was a swamp of sins. On the other side was a dirty field of shortcomings. On the third side was an iron net of negligence. On the fourth side was an oasis of useless desires and in the middle was a dim lamp whose burning flame was flickering between hope and despair like a desert mirage. Whatever was visible was visible in this dim light. The wooden junk of centuries was scattered on the floor. 6 It was thought that the 'Book of the Heart' must be hanging somewhere above the heart, just as a picture of a heart remains hanging above.
But the book was a tool for finding the heart. It was obviously not there above the heart, but if you looked a little deeper in search of it, there were centuries of wooden junk, rusting bushes, iron nets, and terrible ruins. Now the problem was how to find the book with the heart without cleaning the heart.
7
Somehow, in my ignorance, I decided to clean, but this cleaning was to bring joy to the lion. The more I cleaned one day, the more dirt there would be the next day. I took a quick look at the environment to see how much work was left. On one side, I saw a green garden of vain hopes and unfulfilled desires, in which the trees and bushes of unbridled desires were tangled together. I thought that pruning their thorns would be a little easier, but it turned out to be even more difficult than before. After all, cutting the green gardens of sweet dreams is not an easy task. All the evils of fatigue, pain, sadness, anger, disappointment and annoyance shifted to the path of the lamp.
8
The body would become lighter after lifting the burden, but the mind would reproach me that there was no choice but to clean. This reproach of the mind would increase the blood pressure, due to which the next day I would be busy cleaning again with my body. Finally, after a lot of effort, I cleaned it up. Now I looked inside and there was a world there. The heights of the mountains, the depths of the sea, the vastness of the desert, the flow of rivers, the murmur of streams, the sparkle of galaxies, the moonlight. The warmth of the sun, the colors of the flowers, the fragrance of the flowers, in short, there was nothing that was inside the heart, as if the entire universe was contained within the heart.
10
Now it was time to read it. Written on my life, Placed on my strange heart, That book is still waiting, Which I will never be able to read. I fear that in the book, My daily and nightly torments, Those regrets, those reproaches, May be recorded on some margin. I am a deceived superiority, I am suffering from a sense of inferiority, I am a prisoner of the circle of cowardice. I wonder how I will be able to read this book of defeat. But perhaps, even if I stop and think, I will read it at some point. That there will be a page of insight in it, Some writing will be a lesson, Some page will be a tenderness, That by reading it I will be able to erase my sins, Some will be a paper of love, Some will be a white paper, On which I can write a book of love, That there is no book better than the book of love.
11
Now tell me how I can correct it. Whatever has been engraved on it for seven decades has become indelible. Its ink has also hardened and has become stuck on the paper of the heart. How can I erase something from it and how can I write a new one after erasing it? The paper has become old and worn out and has become so worn that the tip of the pen will not make a hundred holes in it. So we thought that instead of correcting it, why not write a new book of love so that it can become an antidote and wash away the ink of the heart. So we took up the pen and fell into this work of risking our lives.
