What of Life?

There is an uninteresting music playing over the radio, the verses that flow and the speakers that scream. I too, for the majority of this life—tried to questions its strangeness. But the quietness that dwells, its superiority that always fascinates.

We are all trying, with all that it takes, to paint us into the person the society wants us to be. It’s as if the governing dynamics—if it were to be written, was scripted by a robot. The multiplication of concrete numbers, unto the system that is life.

And just as we try to breathe, the conditionals that had been pre-determined, has to be a subject of each person’s life. To work, get married, get heartbroken, lose a job, feel grief, lose a loved one—the entirety of flaws that makes us humans. We have been living, but the breath that will no longer make sense.

Each time a star cries, or a dog gets treated with cruelty—each but an act that has been imprinted on us by ourselves. To say that only a handful deserve the comforts, and to say that other’s do not—is but a nonsensical ‘sense’ of our generation.

No one would want, or who would dress up for your funeral if all you ever did was think like a robot. The answer is what baffles us most, that is—everyone will. And to the persona who tried not to blend in, has his ashes scattered in the slum—all but a deliberation of today’s school of thought.

Sometimes I wonder, but not everyone understands. The arches of grief on a Tuesday and the emptiness of emotions on the summit of Everest—is it the same given that we know what we know per say. Or is the feeling, but a dire need to be accepted.

To make sense in a world that is so demanding, and carelessly flying over the clouds like Kings and Queens. We are in a tough situation, for our species that has to have an ending. Maybe the next would just rely on freethinking—a society that would demand evidence before submitting to anything abstract.

This life, not everyone who breathes is living, and not everyone who smiles is smiling. The clauses that are too extreme yet simple—but nobody ever understands. Where is the grace that would have been showered in the first of our species? Or hate, if it were to be the first emotion to get ahold of us.

What is the meaning of life if it’s not dreaming, kayaking in the skies and singing love songs to strangers? Now that each song has already been pre-defined, and the skies that have been filled with black ashes—not everyone knows, (we act like)—but we all do.

And to the person reading this, life is as tragic as it can be, just a little sweeter for some to comprehend.

-Yogesh Chandra