It leaves me in awe to think of how the
day starts, knowing that there has never been a day that has ever
been like the other. Every day brings its share of worry and hope.
Everyday has its own challenges; everyday has its good side, and
today was no different, save for my thoughts. I woke up feeling
sickly and worn out. I felt tired as if I had been tilling on a piece
of land the whole night, but I still dared to think about the day.
How would it be? Would I live to see the sun set? Thoughts have a way
of haunting someone. So that he thinks of his own death, so that he
visualizes how his life would be after his demise. The dawn of each
day propels these feelings forward; for the soul is alive, for the
soul is still in its resident, comfortably tucked under the warmest
corner.
I have a particular feeling that the
knowledge of the start and the end of the day should not have come to
being. I carry this thought that hours should trudge on, without
pausing, without looking back and whistling so that they let you know
of their death and their rebirth, their recantation. Hours should be
benevolent. They should be understanding and not harsh, so that they
worry not the soul, So that it remains duped. When the soul is duped,
human life becomes easy and comfortable. It is best to live in a
particular time and space, dedicating your thoughts to that specific
moment, restraining yourself to t is happening at particular
juncture. Dedicating your thoughts and feelings to the very living
moment of your life is a good step towards the achievement of peace.
I have experienced it, and that is why I want to write.
There are moments in my life when am
seized by this spirit whose origin I know not. It leads me to a world
of thought. So that am forced to think. It forces me to ponder about
anything. When I woke up today, I had already felt its presence. I
knew that I had to ponder about something, and that was the birth of
this writing. I took a pen and a paper, not knowing what I should
write, yet writing. That is the life I live. That is the life I shall
live. From dust to dust, ash to ash. I will forever be literati,
eking a living from writing. I shall continue to write when the
spirit wears me, for it left me in the midst of this conversation;
this conversation between my pen and the slate. This conversation
that truly disappoints when cut short, but what can I do? I cannot
force the spirits. I have to wait.
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