I have lived this far and I rejoice I am still living. I rejoice at the bounty of this beautiful earth that it has so much to offer. I rejoice at the rivers that flow peacefully. I rejoice at the early morning sun rise that I have not seen for a long time. I rejoice at the sun sets, and the smell of the evening aroma filling the air I breathe. I rejoice at the scent of the flowers and the colors of the trees and the birds that fly around in the sky. I rejoice all that is mundane, all that is around me, all that is common.
But this is not enough. There is more I want from life and I am unable to quell that desire for something more. Sometimes I even do not understand what that something more is. Deep inside, an empty feeling that something is missing, that everything is not plainly fulfilling, pricks my heart to death.
And I reckon. I have had everything possible I could ask for. I have been born to loving parents, and I have siblings who love me as much as I love them. I am educated and I have a job. I have friends who stand by me through good and bad times. I live a descent life by all standards. Above all I am alive, living, breathing and feeling.
What more can I ask for?
But there is a hole that needs to be filled up. A hole that is gradually becoming wider and bigger each day. Eventually, I feel that the hole will engulf me and I will just perish as if I was never been there at all.
This incarcerating feeling turns into fear, the fear that I may never be the one I have always dreamt of becoming. This fear cuts me piecemeal as though a butcher is peeling off the skin of a live animal layer by layer. I can see the tears of pain in the eyes of the animal and feel the pain it is going through. I empathize with the animal for the pain that is hurting me is no greater than the animal’s. Just that I am lucky to be enduring the pain not having to be peeled alive.
Euthanasia is not such a bad option, I wonder. Perhaps, it is good that death could be enticed to come in a peaceful manner and silently snub the life out of you. Without a groan of pain, without the sensation and the slightest idea that you are dying. Man finally seems to have conspired with death.
The other side is where man believes lies a shroud of darkness. Am I afraid of the darkness? Or am I just afraid of not seeing the light anymore? Does death mean darkness or liberation, as some call it, from the mundane existence we are deeply rooted to? Is death just a transition to the other world of the heaven, the world of the rebirth, or the hell?
Or what if it is just nothingness thereafter? When you die, what if there is nothing but blackness? What if there is no soul, nothing called life thereafter? What if there is no hell or heaven or rebirth into different realms of existence? Perhaps, we are a mass of energy and this energy goes back to the universe it was created out of. What if there is no consciousness. I wonder.
Often I have experienced the worst of darkness where for a moment you just see blackness and nothing else. But even in that blackness I have seen illusions of somewhat bluish, some greenish rays of lines moving, sometimes I have seen whirlpools of distorted figures come and disappear in that absolute blackness? How black is the darkness?
Fumbling through a dark room looking for a torch or a mach box to light a candle, in several occasions, I have felt so blinded, deprived of my ability to see. And I have wondered that blind people must be feeling the same way. How true it is, I have never bothered to find out. But that is how I have always felt and wondered.
There is so much you will miss in a life time. A lifetime is therefore so less a time we are given. Some incompleteness will forever remain. And perhaps that’s why there is this whole concept of the other world. It is a huge consolation to hear that our journey is not ending with death. We have greater journeys to take, be it through the dark gates of hell or the golden doors of heaven.
What is incomplete can be completed there. What is left undone can be done there. You just need to have the right sense to believe it or not. But people like me, who desperately feel that time is running out of hand, and that there is not much that can be done; melancholy and misery are the best companions.
That’s why despite an unreeling sense of hopelessness, I carry on rejoicing at life at hand. That’s why I enjoy the choking puff of smoke that kills me every little inch. That’s why I rejoice when I look at people who walk the streets in millions, with a thought or so many, in their head. Because they are just like me who will die one day. That’s why I appreciate people who make merry, and live as if they are dying tomorrow.
That’s why I am writing this despite a heavy feeling that there is no use writing. It is just a mere consolation.
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