Through Life how I went,
Hours,the minutes, the seconds spent.
Saw through worry,
felt every bit,
All through glory,
through all the shit.
For all, same old fashion,
For me,life took a turn,
was it heat of passion,
or a scarring burn.
Were they frames of past,
the blue sky and the roses red,
or a dark shadow to cast,
on future yet to be led.
Thinking,sinking all through the night,
what to do, where to go,
Heart straining to see the light,
but then alas I still dont know.............
Saturday, September 13, 2008
The............................
I have always wondered how my death is going to be like.
Will it be as painful as birth? Will it again be a tunnel with light at the end of it? Will people again look at me teary eyed with a slant of the head and wonder what life is? Will it be the ‘something’ I have searched for all my life?
Or will it be a flight this time with a plunge into nothingness? A jump defying laws of Newton where the very lack of action will invite a slapping reaction? Or will it be the ‘nothing’ I have feared forever and ever?
What I dread most when I ask myself these questions is not the answers themselves but the paradox that I won’t be around to get them. The funny part here is that in spite of having guessed the outcome of this futile activity I invest a considerable fraction of my living hours into it. Funnier maybe is this, this utter waste of the few remaining hours in typing it out. So now, instead of encouraging further tangential and useless thoughts let me close this paragraph with the new found insight into yours truly, ”I am a funny person”.
And now, moving on (English is a funny language); I have actually solved this dilemma to a certain extent by having sketched out my idea of a perfect death. With me I have a clearly chalked out systematic plan for the same. The idea of this write up is to share my masterpiece with you but it is only fair that I warn you about various copyright issues that might come your way, posthumously. So my request would be to treat this as a suicide letter and do the needful. For yourself that is.
I always believed that a beautiful picture is nothing but colorful strokes of brush with a creative brain and a peaceful mind, made by the owner of this brain and mind. A death letter, if this can be called one, may be perceived as an artist’s manifestation of the breakdown in the aforementioned creativity and peace.
But all said and done, I know you are bored of reading this and believe me I am dead tired writing it, so it’s high time to throw some light into this otherwise dark piece, the time to end it, to put things into a little perspective.
I am the artist and this is my last leaf.
Will it be as painful as birth? Will it again be a tunnel with light at the end of it? Will people again look at me teary eyed with a slant of the head and wonder what life is? Will it be the ‘something’ I have searched for all my life?
Or will it be a flight this time with a plunge into nothingness? A jump defying laws of Newton where the very lack of action will invite a slapping reaction? Or will it be the ‘nothing’ I have feared forever and ever?
What I dread most when I ask myself these questions is not the answers themselves but the paradox that I won’t be around to get them. The funny part here is that in spite of having guessed the outcome of this futile activity I invest a considerable fraction of my living hours into it. Funnier maybe is this, this utter waste of the few remaining hours in typing it out. So now, instead of encouraging further tangential and useless thoughts let me close this paragraph with the new found insight into yours truly, ”I am a funny person”.
And now, moving on (English is a funny language); I have actually solved this dilemma to a certain extent by having sketched out my idea of a perfect death. With me I have a clearly chalked out systematic plan for the same. The idea of this write up is to share my masterpiece with you but it is only fair that I warn you about various copyright issues that might come your way, posthumously. So my request would be to treat this as a suicide letter and do the needful. For yourself that is.
I always believed that a beautiful picture is nothing but colorful strokes of brush with a creative brain and a peaceful mind, made by the owner of this brain and mind. A death letter, if this can be called one, may be perceived as an artist’s manifestation of the breakdown in the aforementioned creativity and peace.
But all said and done, I know you are bored of reading this and believe me I am dead tired writing it, so it’s high time to throw some light into this otherwise dark piece, the time to end it, to put things into a little perspective.
I am the artist and this is my last leaf.
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