What is being dead?
What is being alive?
Are you just flesh, moulded into many contours, bearing resemblance to your ancestors? Or are you myriad memories, a thousand thoughts, infinite dreams – shattered, waiting, whole-, a million shades of emotions?
Does it matter whether your hair looks perfect, everyone eyes that new dress you got – when it hazily worries you that it probably cost a poor man’s week- when one day, laughing and chatting with an intimate friend, you realise you know nothing about this stranger?
You look at the wasted years, years that prioritised and revolved around…something so important then, while the really important things, orbited around you vying for attention, grew distant with each ignored moment creating a chasm so empty and vast…a chasm between souls, not physical but ever-present in subtle ways…the uncomfortable ‘normal’ silence…unable to look someone in the face…the inexplicable, indistinct pangs…
You find it hard to reconciliate with the fact that there will be time later for what your heart craves, everything has a time, and once past it can never be recaptured. Leaving you to a tortured existence of reliving, replaying…
A memory flaunting its treasure of unused opportunities…flirting with your guilty conscience…never coming back…
Christina De Silva
06 November 2008
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