People.
Time tests everyone. It has its own tactics. Making us alone in a crowd of friends, Engulfing us in a fog of deafening silence and making us hate the things we once adored. Every passing second, Every Second that is passing by, In every second... what is...that passes? Entombed deep under the weight of dreams that are not our own, lies a corpse rotting with false hope. With an epitaph mocking his very life with satirical phrases and poetry that he never adored. There shall be no one to read it in future. As people sleep below this earth, so does their empathy and apathy.
"Bring a bouquet of dead flowers and crush its petals over me. What you shall be left with would be my soul, gasping in the palm of your hand"
Can we really blame time? What is time but a mere measurement of movement for mortal beings mourning the many massacres of their morbid momentary lives. What is Movement but flickers, jerks and shrieks that people produce and have been permanently accustomed to. We know a thing or two about movement. We see it, we believe in it, but yet we don’t. We live in a time defined by movement and a world surrounded by people that are a cause of this movement but.... *sighs* leave it you wont understand, Maybe I won’t be able to make you understand what moved me.
In a past life I Believe that I might be a dog, Because I’m scared of dogs or maybe I’m just scared of myself. The idea of presenting myself scares me. I see people around me selling their lives just to get something out of their lives. Sometimes I wish to lock myself in a box which has a keyhole large enough for me to peep out and see the outside world, its nuances and judgements, its hypocrisy and joy, its betrayal and surprise. The people around me are living lives that they say are theirs but yet they complain, why? I’ll be honest with you, Dear Reader. I’ve lost the plot, Of all this. You may go now and complain that I wasted your time on this. You are People. People hear People but not souls. Maybe someday I shall be able to explain to you better about time. Oh! My People,
Time heals everyone.
At this Point I only have a prayer that I shall recite for you.
People of the land,
May we be born
Work is there to be
there to make you cry
But laughter is wiser
Said the big bellied man
May we hear a lot
The songs old people sang
Songs that made them cry with joy
which made the child sleep goodnight
Such songs that move the dead
and turn the living bright red
May we also speak less
for devil resides on the tongue
a devil that talks in whispers
spewing more lies than words
Shout aloud when ears call
for throat screams only the truth
for throat is where angel resides
May we all die soon
Have lived with a heart contented
leaving behind cries and wails
Of people from all our tribes
At last my people
May we all live
Live lives that are worth living
Live lives that are worth dying
Such a life as when death arrives
You recall a life that made you smile
