There is always a bend on the path where one pauses to look back and feels that much of the life has been spent up in dreaming nonsense, doing nonsense and talking nonsense. It starts the day with a frustrating tone as dampened as a lonely umbrella left outside under a raining sky and fills the heart with a sense of utter dejection. Time is ruthless, so is life until we learn to obey its rule. One is extended with choices of either loving it living through or abhorring it dying through. But, one cannot deny of having opportunity of numerous turns and twists through the walking way. And, at certain point, maybe, at certain moment, one more turn reveals a different horizon and raises altogether a different feeling. It may not be a wise piece of thought, may not even be a sense of philosophic upliftment….and it may also be so; but irrespective of what it brings along it sets a different tune to the ears so accustomed to listen to a scheduled playlist….it may be worse or better, but something significantly unlike than the experiences of the past. It widens up the thoughts that it arouses as if evaporating somewhere never known, yet there is not much of passion left to hold them back or knit them in any defined texture. It may induce with a sense of losing identity or getting closure to it; it may be a song that sounds like a hymn or may also appear like a dirge; and, it may also infuse the core inside with an utter dilemma to discern about which is what. This turning point is just an inescapable certainty of life. The life flows like a river with vigour and vibrancy of youth through its initial exposure to the company of the time, with the rebellion in defying the obstinacy of pebbles and stones and with the laughter in meandering through vales and hills; and farther it runs, it seeks to be kissed by gentle banks, caressed by leisurely touches of fatigued oars and obsessed by the beauty of the setting sun upon its placid face. And, flowing on it once reaches somewhere, which it has never even dreamt of….the banks fading far into vacuity, islands surfacing like upturned boats, the horizon doesn’t anymore define the margin between possession and submission. It sea-saws between a complex state of attaining revelation and sacrificing wisdom, of having pleasure in losing identity and slipping into the agony of retaining it so long for not much of purpose. There is always such a phase in life when river sees its face upon its mirror and the life finds all peace to be blessed by the wishes of river finally.