The train shuffles along rapidly, with the dying sun creating beautiful tapestries while intermingling with the clouds. The strong hues of yellow and crimson are taking over the gradually vanishing remaining traces of blue. I put my temple on the window glass and fittingly, flag off a train of thoughts.
“A string of letters, a yarn of words; Truths and lies and sayings of sorts. Knitting together a tapestry of swords; Feeling and fueling the flames of hordes.“
Honours were at stake, a war was to be fought. A murder was to be avenged, justice was to be served. When Mark Antony began his speech at Julius Caesar’s funeral, it was more than a friend giving an eulogy to a fallen friend, or a disciple seeking justice over an assassination. Shakespeare’s pen had created the ideal stage to understand how the conundrum of trust worked, ranging from the exclamatory realisations of rupture (“Et tu, Brute?”) to it’s salvation. But it made one thing quite clear to me – that trust feeds on words. Or maybe words hold an invisible control over trust. I haven’t quite decided yet.