Lately death seems to be all around, not that it had ever stopped being around, but somehow it seems to have gotten more intimate. In my closet, in my coffee, in my bathroom, in my garden, in my hair, in my cat, in my cuticles.
Post my father’s exit in 1989, a button of unattachment attached itself on me. This button lacked a control button. It was like death itself. Always hovering.
And when Shivraj died, he killed whatever life i had residing in me. When i say life i mean the emotion of life of holding on to dear life. The silly notion of "forever" built with others, with platinum rings, with infinity symbols inked on our hearts. The silly notion of making “alone” a state of patheticness (yes I know that’s not a word.) But are we really capable of loving anyone beside ourselves? and is that so wrong? Is life only marked by the physical presence of loved ones?
The idea of going thru the rest of my journey like a dead person seems to be the greatest gift of all. To see the beauty in living life unattached, unattainable, unavailable; to live life like a dead person and feel the most alive.
O look the leaves have started falling
Yesterday was summer and
Soon the trees will be bare
I will see you there