I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to be just a diary entry. In this moment I am living and breathing and moving and as I take each step I am aware of how it’s all turning into history. Is this what it feels like?
I look at my History text book and my fingers move over the Mughals and the Sultans and I can’t help but wonder if they ever had a hunch that they were going to be immortal in between these sheets of paper. Because I know the world is moving past me and as it does, I am becoming the past, but I don’t know if this past has a future. I don’t know if this movement is backwards for forwards. Although, it certainly feels like the wrong direction.
I read obituaries, sometimes. I have a liking and a disliking, both, for them. A liking because as inconsiderate as they appear, they’re adorned with reverence that I may or may not be able to see. At least, I choose to believe so. And a disliking because of how irrelevant they are. Nobody wants that stuff written about them after they’re dead. Nobody.
I wish I could say something to those families. Something like this: Don’t let it end this way. Don’t let the cancer or the accident or the failed marriage be the last memory of that person. Because even when he didn’t know he was going to be dead, he was preparing his life for a more gloriously deceptive past. He didn’t think all of it was not going to matter. He just kept on going and today, he is gone.
He is not living and breathing and moving like I am. He is a past that never existed. He is the lesson nobody learnt, the magic nobody believed, and the mistakes nobody remembers. Yet he lived for and through all of it.
I understand that even if nobody else wants to. But i don’t want that. I don’t want to end that way.
And even if i do, I definitely don’t want anyone to understand it like I did.