Reading Mr.Orhan Pamuk's Novel, The Museum of Innocence, one can't help but realize how much our world revolves around ourselves.. no matter how trivial, every moment is phenomenally crucial, to ourself.. our life.. and we wonder how the world can just move on right beside us so nonchalantly.. obsession, in whatever way, is a part of our lives, somehow giving meaning to it.. and we need the 'recognition' and 'acknowledgement' of the same desperately.. but, is it as momentous to others.. or as ludicrous and trivial as the 'museum' is to readers not sharing the same 'obsession'.. we all have these limitless stores of memorabilia, stored in pockets of memories, captured in the museum of our mind.. and though they don't lack import, others still write their own story.. and care about their own collection.. finding it equally ludicrous all around..
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