Mortality is a concept you think of more by the passing year.
Just as those greys start appearing out of nowhere you think what is the point of this relentless running. Where is this voyage supposed to take us? Is it supposed to take us anywhere at all? Or is it just the journey. I am not hunting metaphors, but meaning. I am searching, I have stumbled on a few pebbles till now, I am waiting to hit the rock. But do I have to go around the world or do I have to look at all the chambers of my soul? I know not.
The journey is worthwhile, I will give it that much: unpredictable, often mercurial, it is everything you want and not want all rolled into one.
And we are the zombies walking from one weekend to the next, the worst in us shines forth. Fairytales are a distant dream and the truth with it’s icy hands hold our slender necks stronger and stronger still, till none of the mess people generally resort to in a bid to forget pain or stall cheer, can hold to ransom the fated day when we are wiped off the face of the earth like muddy water from the floor.
Is that our destination the? A brooding and long wait for that day? It is a dismal journey then I must say.
If on the way we are not alone, if on the way someone holds your hand, lovingly and longingly, that itself is the journey’s greatest truth. Not riding the ladder and being alone on top, not being on a pedestal and condescending on the mediocre lot, but being among the many, mingling and spreading happiness is the key to combat this mortality. Not being overtly famous or rich but touching lives so that even if you are not there, you are remembered, and your memory brings a smile.
In your face, Death.
