On My Grave

You are the black wall or a shadow on the white wall. It took me years to look into the light, to explore the bright. There was nothing known, there was this profound question of existence. The corner had a mirror which said I am the truth but I, on the other hand, made it vivid that everything is a mystery, is a myth.

Nothing is solved and the creativity lies in the unsolved. I run around breathlessly in search of either everything or nothing. It never did cover my perceptions, my imagination. This thought galloped into the sea of already existing notions, that if it’s already not real then why don't I live in the world of my own head. Moreover, my small head invites me to the grandeur, grandeur of unacceptable moments.

There is this wooden chair which is always comfortable. There is this small room enough for a claustrophobic to die, still is so warm to survive. This one bread for three times is enough to thrive upon. I am welcomed to smoke heavily letting my inner self out in that little-acquainted vicinity. There is this one voice which tells me that this is the truth, this is for real and I, like an innocent born with curious eyes wide open and ears ready to hear at every passing second, rejoice every tiny slot of happiness or I would exclaim this as the pursuit of happiness. 

This is my world where rules are curtailed. Curtains are open and I am not afraid because I am not on the stage where I am asked to satisfy people’s definition of the art of living; I am at the backstage. I am not in this confined world; I am in my small room with infinite opportunities’ of my own. The boundaries are expandable, the voice favors me, surrounding blesses me and at last, my grave in the world said: “lived and died” and in my story, it said: “dead but alive”. 

The world is the stage and the story is the one at the backstage.