With each step towards pragmatism ravaging my existential territory, the idea of death seems quite tempting in that context. It is painful, it is agonizing, it is devastating, and it is killing. It is like walking over a thousand broken glasses with bare feet. I wish, I could show my bruises, my injuries to people, but then those injuries are miraculously invisible.
Even if I had some powerful chemical to make them visible, I would still not because even then, whom would I show them to. I have no one. No one is mine. I am no one’s. When I talk of people in my life, family and friends come to mind. But family accompanies the stink of superstitions, customs, traditions, and limitations. Friends remind of practicality, competition and job security. Perhaps, no one reminds me of myself. I wish someone did. Perhaps, death does. It makes one free, unchaining one from all such baggages and freeing the soul of these barbed wires. It is rejuvenating, liberating and pacifying and hence the best option to tackle my melancholies.
But then, I think that all that I thought about death is supposed; nobody has ever narrated or described death to me. They all talk about it based on their own imaginations. What if it was actually not like that. What if after dying, life actually seemed easier and happier? What if life seemed more desirable after death? The regretful presence of these what ifs makes me dislike death.
And then, even in my deepest conundrum of unsolved mysteries of life, I suddenly realize that death isn’t the solution, since it actually doesn’t offer us the freedom it is considered to. Life gives us the liberty to die but death doesn’t offer the same menu.
As if, hit by a jolt of lightening, I decided to first explore the menu of life and relish on each delicacy it offered and then maybe cling off the cliff of death later. So, I got up from my bed, wiped of my tears and began writing.
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