I did not know that the end of imagination was starting point for the chocking the way towards my heart, mind and brain. I was strong believer in audacity of hope, enthusiasm of every chirping dawn and shiny battlefield of afternoon. I was also passionate lover of evening carpet of sage orange appealing my conscious to have a meaningful dialogue with self. I was in awe of the peacock wandering back and forth of my room who was beautifully teaching me the essence of how to wait for the rains endlessly without uttering a letter about the scorching summer and draught of ambience where we can feel that miles and miles from here, there is none to rescue our isolation, our stranded flow of emotions and joy hijacked by known enemy, none other than the obsession about greed.
Renunciation of the social life and reconciliation of the personal life was very necessary for the discovery of the self to have an impact on the world around me. I continued to taste every other feast offered by the fortune and fame. I never said no to every invitation coming from aura and appealing aspiration. I kept going in the direction where there was celebration of the virtues which are required to celebrate the true character of the tailor made life. Even this was perfect recipe for the successful times ahead. But my heart was calling my attention towards the other hidden volcano brewing in my mind again and again.
Shameful exposure of self to the other self is the most unfortunate event of my life. None can forgive me because I have exhausted the possibilities to forgive myself. It is said that, forgiveness is fragrance flower gives when crushed. Do I have that innate power of selflessness to award self the blessing of forgiveness when I am suffering to have a glimpse of love from my self? Shall I ever think about giving birth to massive influx of the disappointment coming due to the only fact being I failed to read myself? I do not hate me either. Hatred is so much powerful reward for someone who actually deserves some kind of caricature where human vices have concentrated. I even do not posses those extreme muscles of vices which will make me to hate myself. This makes life even more agonized than that of even being hated by others. Because when one cannot express any feeling about self, I am sure that person is drying out of spring flow of life. This spring flow is so necessary to feed survival instinct that even person who knows his death is coming, tries to pacify that terror by the songs of a dream, even though knowing well enough that we are not going to complete that song anyhow.
So, what constitutes the dilemma? What is dilemma, am I posing the situation as an unsolvable mystery to engage in the chanting of the philosophy? But see, I laugh at myself realising that the philosophy is actually the great opportunity to create another moral puzzle challenging both the rational and irrational mind of mine; to enmesh myself in the constant process of self-identification in the mist of suffering. So, what is more easy? To be in constant motion of mind scape where I can spend my valuable (?) time to solve crucial (?) problems, or shall I surrender myself to the bed of irresistible and accommodative compassion of grief ; more affectionate than the tenderness of touch of my soul which often falls in the valley of oxymoron wonderland full of surprises driving me to jump, dance and shout with joy.
Every moment, I die for new life. Every moment, I live for sustained death. Still, my life and my death never meet each other. They fear that the moment they see each others uncommon faces, they will start adoring each other`s supreme natural ability to define life in terms of two opening and enclosing parenthesis. They fear that watching deep in the eyes of each other might force them to understand the gravity of pain both are carrying; pain of life due to it`s mortality and of death due to it`s immortality. They are anxious that a warm handshake may make them realise that without each other, their existence is contestable by the bargainers of the human fate. They are really shy of being with each other, because you never know the convergence of polarising divergence may be a defining moment in the story of 'made for each other'. So, they never meet each other. They do not want to give an opportunity to the narrators of living and buried history the privilege to engrave the unique conference of the two architects of the tunnel called TIME.
But they meet in the confused traffic jam in my mind where green and red signals of hope and despair oscillate with a lightening speed. They meet in the impulsive thunder-showers of my poems and determined downpour of resigning ultimatums. They meet in the nights when I cry endlessly and during the day when I smile effortlessly. They meet when I see a red rose is surrounded by thorns and when the love blossoms amidst the timeless encroachment of these pragmatic (?) thorns over the delicate petals of the companionship. They meet in every foreground of sacrifice and every background of courageous bravery.
They never promise to meet each other, still they do meet without any surprising exceptions. And all the times, they are with each other. Sometimes, we fail to trace their camouflaged association so deeply embedded in each other`s existence and sometimes so overtly and subtly they distance each other to defeat the microscopic observer`s experience and the chronicler of the macroscopic reality. Since then, I have left with no option to stop my search for a new life and suspend my passion to embrace the death. Because now I know, I have no and really I do not possess the power to overrule the authority of the empire of inseparable homogenised duality of the royal king of life and royal queen of death. I only aspire to be king of that kingdom one day to start my unending exploration for the queen whom I love more than myself.
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