Random Write

 I am no longer the lad of old. Yet, I am an old lad. My power of concentration waning. My strength in the limbs is fading. Near breathless, I take my steps, one by one, to the grave. The world does not wait for me, like I have waited for it. I am obscuring into history, now a whisper, soon an echo. The world is too big for me to be heard. I have accepted that. The world is also too big for me to be seen. I have accepted that. My years passed belong to an ant, such is the eon of this ground I stand. And my words are my feelers.

Now, I know better than anyone. I can't forsake what I need. It will find me soon enough. Like a boomerang. I have tried, or I need to, as part of human's innate drive, to extend beyond myself. No, not in the form of a legacy of a child, but with my feelers. But I already know where I stand, which by any standard, falls far short. But I guess, what matters is, they are MY feelers. No one else's. In that way, I have done my part. And I will continue to do so. For life is after all, a process. It does not end till it all ends.

How does one find out his shortcomings when things are always on the move with time, that damned eternal river? We can never be our true self, which is always slowly changing, if we have to search for it again and again. It is a race we will never win. 

The pain we have, as a child, as an adult, is a psychic fragmentation before rebuilding to a new self, again and again. What is joy then? The suture tightening?