With each passing second, I am closer to my grave.

And so are you.

I was thinking the other day that I don’t want to die. Not really. Even in the darkest of the nights, when I don’t think this life is worth living: deep, deep inside, I would like to stay in this world.

And not because I want to make a change, or leave behind a legacy. Nothing so romantic.

I am simply scared of what is beyond this darkness.

I am scared of what I’ll find, of what I won’t find.

I am scared of the nothingness, of my non-existence.

I am scared of what I cannot comprehend, of this world my mind cannot grasp.

Search within yourself, and you might find that you are too.

We are all taught to fear death, to shrink away from the grave, to mourn when it claims one of us and rejoice for another day we are granted.

We live in constant fear of this unknown, driven by this burning desire to maximize each second we are free from its clutches.

We label those who crave death ‘insane’. We shun those who experience this desire we can’t understand. People are but victims of our inability to comprehend them.

So, what if.

What if they are right and we are wrong? What if life is just the path to a much more glorious destination? What if they were the ones who were enlightened, who had discovered this truth? What if we did not flinch away from death but embraced it, welcomed it even?

Would it change our lives, would it have any impact at all? Would we be happier, more peaceful if we learnt to accept this inevitable outcome?

Place your palm on your chest and listen to the beat of your heart. Right now, your clock is ticking. Each thump takes you closer to your grave. One day, you will lie beneath the Earth, your last breath murmured out from your parted lips, your eyes fated never to see the light of life again. You will be forgotten, you legacy scattered into the air, forever lost. The people you love will blame you for leaving them behind and you will be powerless to piece together their broken hearts.

Does your heart pound faster just thinking about this? Is your pulse rocketing, your lips tightened in a grim line with obvious displeasure?

We don’t want to think about this inevitable outcome, we prefer not to acknowledge it. It is the ever present ghost shadowing our happiness. But it doesn’t have to be so.

Death is not the enemy. Death is necessary, to keep checks on our dreams and allow us to make the most of our lives. Death gives us perspective; its darkness is in perfect contradiction to the light of our lives. Death is no less sacred than life and it is a crime to treat it so.

I dream of a society where we can embrace this end, where it is acceptable to speak of our demise with smiles playing on our lips. Where death is no longer morose or grim, but the happy ending to a happy life.

I said it before and I will say it again:

Death is not the enemy.

Embrace its darkness and you’ll find the fruit of life all the more sweeter for it.

#Death #Philosophy #Future #Life #Creativity

‘Why do I write?’ you ask me, your voice tainted with unmasked annoyance. I do not know what I’ve done this time, only that whatever I do will never be enough, no, not for you

.

If I were being truthful to myself, I would admit that you are not what I imagined you would be from the light. But then again, truthfulness is yet another trait that annoys you to no extent, which puts a stop to that rather disappointing revelation.

I feel the weight of your stare on my face and look up to stare into your eyes. Crystal-blue on good days, they remind me of those interminable skies stretching far above me.

I am lost in them, in the heady memories of the past, of an alternative future, of unexplored possibilities, of those unfulfilled hopes and dreams.

The skies turn a bruised blue, and I snap back to the present.

Your gaze burns with disgust. If you were being honest with yourself, you would admit that I wasn’t what you thought I would be either. But it is too late, for both of us.

You shake your head in blatant annoyance and storm away, and I still don’t know what I’ve done. But this time, I barely notice. You will be back in a few hours, I know, with lipstick on your collar and a smirk on your lips. But I am too lost in my head to care.

The question swims around in my hand as my hand falters on the page.

Why do I write? Why do I write knowing that the world may not have enough space to squeeze in yet another unfulfilled dream? Why do I write knowing that I’ll probably never be good enough, I’ll never rise up to the standards set by those better than me?

I want to tell you that I write for you, my voice a lingering caress on your skin. I know it would please you, at least for the next few days. But no, that would be a lie. I write for myself? How selfish, you would say, disgust rolling off you.

I write to tell my story, to immortalize my hopes, my dreams, to leave behind a legacy, something to remember me by when I am no longer here. Each word a footprint on the sand, a scratch on the rocks, a trail left behind that will lead the world to my grave.

My pen flies across the page, deep blue ink scrawled on creamy white. It is over this ink that I come alive, against the scratch of the rough paper beneath my hand.

But you do not understand. You never do. You look at me as if I’ve gone mad and tell me that I am wasting my time. I think to myself that maybe you are right. You walk away and I feel tears burn at the back of eyes.

In the silence of the darkness, I let them fall.

You stand before me, your hand outstretched in a silent offer, the corner of your mouth tilted up in an endearing smile. Cloaked by shadows, you are just out of reach of the blinding light.

We are parted, by the darkness of your land and the light of mine, but your hand suggests that it needn’t be so. There is a spark in your eyes, a challenge. A quirk of the eyebrow and a tilt of the head and I know, at that very moment, that my heart has already chosen for me.

I tell myself that I could never resist a challenge, but deep inside, I know that it was you I couldn’t resist that day.

Time seems to stop. I am Persephone, with the blood red seeds fisted in my hand. Like her, I am fated to this moment, but I do not regret it. I could never really regret you.

Your eyes are full of promise and it’s all I can do to not throw myself into your welcoming arms. But I know that once I enter the darkness, there is no leaving. And nevertheless, I know I will.

I look to the skies, to the overwhelming shrine of crystal-blue above me, chasing the grass into the shadows at the coming of dusk. It is time. My world merges into yours and I raise my hand and place it in your callused one. You smile, and your eyes gleam in the darkness.

For a moment, I am scared.

I turn back for one last look at the world I leave behind, a past full of unfulfilled hopes and dreams, but it is too late. I am pulled into the mouth of the tunnel and into your arms as darkness closes in around me.

The tip of my quill hovers over the page, my hand trembling as I look into the darkness.

‘Who am I?’, I ask myself and after several moments of a maddening silence, I realize that I don’t know.

It is a frightening moment, when it dawns upon you that the person you will live with for the rest of your life is the person you know the least.

When you realize that you are fated to die in this darkness; your hands forever groping in the dark; cruel panic twisting in you when you realize that you will never find myself.

Who am I?

‘A fraud’, that niggling voice in the back of my head suggests. How can I strive to tell my story, dare to enter this tunnel, when I am infinitely more muddled than everyone else? I am a fake, a con, a crow striving to fly among the doves.

I wince at the words, wanting to shut them out, but I am afraid.

If I shut out the only voice that can tell me who I am, will I truly even exist?