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.
