Questions

Sometimes, it’s hard to tell whether I am actual alive or not. I look into the mirror and wonder who that person is. It couldn’t be me.. Is that what I look like? Really? Is this the flesh that enshrines my soul?

Things come and go, shit happens, and all that remains the same is that I'm still breathing. The lungs fill and empty, day in n day out without a rest. What would it be like for them to rest? Are they not tired like I am?

Why do these things happen? Why do I feel like I have been hit by a truck and run over by a road roller? Is it the way life is? Does everyone go through the anguish and pain that I go through? Or is it different. My heart aches for the millions who starve and millions of others who are victims of atrocities that are unimaginable. But selfish and oh so human that I am, it hurts more to see the ones I love in pain and causing pain.

I do not believe that it is possible for someone to feel pain without causing some too. And thus each and every one of us is the cause of pain at some point of time or the other. Does my elevated level of grief make me a trouble causer? Or are some people just destined to feel more hurt… “sensitive human beings” as they are called….

I never have been able to figure it out, maybe I don’t really want to. My heart aches from loss.. of people, of things and of the slow but steady, and very apparent degeneration of some of the people I love.

At first I prayed. I asked why? Then I requested Him to please intervene. But He didn’t… was it His plan? How can it be? How can He bear to watch one of His own children, His own creation unleash upon itself the effects of the BAD?

I have been asked how it is possible for me to label a thing or action ‘bad’, when bad is so subjective and opinion riddled.. “It’s simple” I said. “Bad, to me is anything that causes harm in any way to the people around or to the person himself, often both.”

Was I destined to loose? Not the trivial battles of examinations or jobs, not the menial little bits, but to loose the people I love, in one way or another, to disease or drugs or alcohol or sometimes just plain unexplainable loss of love on their part.

What is love? Isn’t it meant to be something that remains forever? It may vary in form and intensity but isn’t it the true fibre that binds us, to ourselves and others?

Who is a selfless man? One who forfeits his possessions or valuables for others? He can maybe even give the lives of his dear or his own, but what of those who love him? Doesn’t he hurt them? Doesn’t his attempt at ‘martyrdom’ or ‘sainthood’ steal from some a part of themselves?

And thus for every such ‘martyr’ and ‘saint’ there are the sufferers, who live, they have to live, with a part of their souls lost.

I cry. It’s a physical pain. For what can you do but ache to see someone you love knowingly take their own lives apart.
I was a crusader. I fought, I screamed, I begged, I cried,

I broke…..

Into a million little fragments, too far destroyed to ever be put back together.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chequered with woven shadows as I lay

Among the grass, blinking the watery gleam,

I saw an Echo-Spirit in his bayMost idly floating in the noontide beam.

Slow heaved his filmy skiff, and fell, with sway

Of ocean's giant pulsing, and the Dream,

Buoyed like the young moon on a level stream

Of greenish vapour at decline of day,

Swam airily, watching the distant flocksOf sea-gulls, whilst a foot in careless sweep

Touched the clear-trembling cool with tiny shocks,

Faint-circling; till at last he dropt asleep,

Lulled the hush-song of the glittering deep,Lap-lapping drowsily the heated rocks.

-- William Allingham