A bygone station

A note to past.

In Kariyilakaatu pole, P. Padmarajan writes:

Death is a step in the

journey towards growth

Or beginning must be

The numbness of death.

Death, I feel is the sibling or the twin of life. In fact death is the sole promise that life commits to. Yet we all die multiple times in a single life. Is it because we are all cowards who die a thousand times? Or is it just the shedding away of worn out skins?

One of the most prominent, defining times of our lives happen when we mourn the death of someone alive. Sometimes it must be one of our own selves, sometimes it could be someone else. Sylvia plath points poignantly in Lady Lazarus as:

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

Sometimes we sit by the windowsill looking out into the roads taken and not taken among the woods of bygone times. In the refined contentment of the granaries of past, chaff of unfinished businesses and incomplete meetings, remain bitter sweet, just like the cup of coffee that gives company to a playlist of Adele songs on a rainy day.

After heavy storms, at some point, fresh sprouts of life reawakens in the lap of our hearts. Days in the sun will come again through the cracks of our heart.Sometimes, it’s very easy to reclaim the people who we think are lost. But once, we regain them, we realize that they are not the same anymore. In their reflection, we realize that we aren’t the same.

Like Narcissus, we might have bloomed into a flower. Or we might see a horrible, hideous portrait we would wish to destroy. Either way, it is paradoxically comforting that it won’t stay, that we too are growing after the dormancy of death. Life and death echo each other, like a reminiscent of unrequited love.


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