Philosophers Longueur a rara avis

Habits good or bad, really die hard. Its arduous to ged rid of them, one such peruse skirrs along with me. The more i try to get off with it, the more it persues me. And yet again the pervicacious self was defeated. It gives the conviction that over the ages i have grown more a poltroon, bereft of my own spirits to withhold me from my own habits.

Thoughts and feelings arise with or without our will, the thoughts that transgress the words, the feelings that fail to get construed, and for all these now, expostulating the self with the thoughts and the thoughts with the self, for the self dissuasion and remonstrance.

How vain is it to think that words can penetrate the mystery of our being! Rightly used they may make evident our ignorance to ourselves, and this is much. For what are we? Whence do we come? and whither do we go? Is birth the commencement, is death the conclusion of our being? What is birth and death? Thats not all, there are many many more to torment the truth, to question and refute the truth that we perceive.

We are born, and our birth is unremembered, our infancy remembered but in fragments; we live on, and the life strides from the unremebered birth to the senile senectitude, and how often spurring the inessential, indecorous itch and propensity, taking the misty inchoate paths we live on and in living we lose the apprehension of life.

Amidst the sea of life, as the wind ruffles against the laving water and the water laves against the ruffling wind, desires are warring against the wishes and the wishes withstanding the dissentient desires. All aloof, sailing in the canoe of hopes, rowing with the paddles of wishes, bent upon the paradoxical and profound paths searching for the distant destiny, heart seems to have occluded by its own will. On the contrary mind is making the plots to rule the heart and conquer the desires, while the heart struck by these vicious contemplates, still finding itslef dazed in the world of desires, the desries that battle against the earnset wishes. It is the battle of self against the truth, the battle of the naivete and defiance against the inner self, and while i live, the battle continues and continues all the while.

To juxtapose me with the day, neither do i remember the first day that entered my life, nor do i know when the last day would be, but each day that offers me a day to live in definitely knows that its the first and as well the last to enter in my life. I would like to live, live every day with the stoutheartedness as if it were to be my first day, live with the grit as if it were to be my last, but i scruple, for i fail to feign to have lived the way i wish to. Lost in the amaranthine search of one such alpha day, perhaps it is the day i can find no more, no more to live in and any more to die too...

One life to live and one death to end it. But there are hundreds of ways, thousands of dreams, millions of desires, countless thoughts, all these and all these just witihin one life, and somewhere on the unknown path stands a quietous blow, though only one, yet enough to demise them all. Despite, all along, all the while, the life brings with it a lots of twists and turns, few meandered with mirth, few convoluted with convulsions and few anfractuous with ado.

Silence and peace are desirous. Often the silence signs in, but at times with colossus of commotions, pheonix of pains, amples of ado, and such a silence is far from being desirous, not even worth a wish, still it does creep in.

How often is this true that "The hands that bear, know the weight". Look at this, the one who is dead rests in peace, but the ones left behind know what the pain is, they are the ones to bear it. Does the dead know what that pain is? Bearing the death alone doesnt end the story, the consequences are invariable more callous, harrowing and dire than the death.

Yes, its true as someone said,
Zindagi to bewaafa hai ek din thukarayegi,
Maut mehbooba hai apni saath lekar jayegi...

But to hark back at the life again,

It is not growing like a tree
in bulk doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere,
A lily of a day
is fairer in May
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant of flower and light,
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures, life may perfect be.
--Benjamin Johnson

One such lily was our dear friend, who now rests in peace, but long lasting are the impressions that shall along rue in us, and rule the hearts of all the kiths and kins that our friend deserted. Though the life span was short, the life was defintely sweet and beautiful enough to cherish and blossom the smiles of the companions, kindle the vigor in all the confreres, who got the chance to sail along with that lily.

The bottom line of this experience exemplifies that, No man has lived for ever and no man shall live forever, but the truth is all of them lived and will live, albeit the era, the mode, the mien, the merit, make and the magnitude vary. Neither the birth nor the death are willfull, but definitely the life, may not be in terms of amplitude but surely with its arete. Life may be ephemeral but the imprints of its aretes are eternal. That life is worth, which enlightens and kindles the light and spirit of life in atleast one life, before getting doused.