Sometimes i wonder how i'll die

Sometimes i wonder how i'll die. Will it be something quick and painless, or something so drawn out that waiting for it'll become dreadful and i'll wish for the darkness to arrive early. What will i be doing at the time of my death. Will i get to know beforehand if my time is near. Cos' there is nothing more shameful than leaving a task incomplete and still i'm sure i'll have many tasks before me, incomplete while i leave. Will my family be around when it's time, will i be surrounded by friends or will i cease to exist in a distant land where nobody would know my name. I wonder if they'll cry or laugh after i'm gone. Will i go quietly like the passing out of a flame or will i rage and fight like a moth caught in that flame. Will i leave the world a better place than i found it or if i'll be amongst the nameless, faceless multitude who have lived and died inconspicuously throughout human history.

Sometimes, i really think that i don't want to die at all (but then who does) and even after death, i want to live in the memories of those who i've left behind. I think death is inevitable, and it is too early to think of death, but yeah, i would really like to be missed when i'm gone.

And oh, the fact that when i'm dying, i wouldn't like to wonder how i lived...

not a good way to start the week :) posted this last night here on the blog, after reading a bit piece by Neruda. but that doesn't mean, i haven't thought about this subject before. i guess, all of us think about death at one time or more in life. have you wondered about how it will be, when it will be :)

sometimes at the edge of a day i sit and... write

The day is a road which ends at the cliff of the night. From the edge of it we all take a leap and drown in its unfathomable waters, only to emerge unharmed, renewed, and ready for the next day.

Sometimes at the end of a day I sit on its edge and reminisce how my journey was. I think we all do this knowingly, unknowingly. (In matters like these, we’ve not been given much choice.) And sometimes at the end of the road we are propelled with such great momentum that our only moment of reminiscing is just before hitting the warm, inky depths of the night.

We writers are generally not blessed with such a swift end to our journeys. By our very nature, we are addicted to trying and prolonging this leap, that epiphany between jumping from the cliff and hitting the waters. Though this rarely happens, the road ends sooner than expected, the precipice beckons and we’ve but no choice to end it all, then and there.

But sometimes, by some opportunistic sleight, we do manage to pause the wheels of time. On days like these, we sit on the edge of the cliff and look back at the road, trying to derive meaning out of this needless traveling and jumping and re-emerging dripping the dreams of the night.

…
This life is also a road which ends at the cliff of death. From its edge too we take the leap and drown in its unforgiving waters, only to emerge unharmed, renewed and dripping with the karmas of our previous journey.

…
Sometimes at the end of a day like today, I just wish that when my journey finally ends, I’ll be given more than a moment of recollection, that in the moment when I look back, I’ll see a life well spent and a love well earned.

Sometimes at the edge of a day like today, I just wish her to be beside me and the day… to never end.