Monday, December 29, 2014

Of Temporality

Ghosts. Ghosts are all that are left of the days of yesteryears. The past is another country, long lost in some forgotten revolution. And journeys therein, of necessity, are clouded by false memories, false recollection of true events. Even the people from the past, the ones who left the deepest of marks, would have already turned into ghosts. Forgone dreams may hold them steadfast in memory, but they would hardly have any ground left under them -- their feet would have already turned to smoke.

It is difficult, utterly so, to be homeless. It is difficult still, to not have a home. It is not pleasant, to have to suffer. It is unpleasant still, to realise the futility of suffering. 

The great tragedy of life, is not that it ends. It is rather that the process is, inherently, paradoxical -- a continuous conflict between the destination and the journey itself.

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