Perhaps our past determines the mindset we may have at present, which in turn shapes up the color and texture of our future days. Yet unless one is looking back at life in retrospection, the boundaries between one’s past, present and future are rarely crisp and clearly demarcated. Often these three faces of time seem to overlap each other and we end up living in our past, mistaking it for the present or in our illusory future, overlooking the present completely. To counter these two extremes there is another school of thought known as carpe-diem which discards the past and future for the sake of the present; no less extreme in nature than those it contradicts.
My past began with the death of my child. It died at the age of 20 minutes. Being conceived with some faults, it was supposed to die inside its mother’s womb but the fragile, little thing fought on and managed to suffer from the filth and noise of the world for one third of an hour. Having endured the filth and noise for more than three decades, I can only envy its luck. Anyway, with my child, my present too was buried six feet underground and my past began, exactly eleven years ago.
After the burial my marriage was in shambles, as I deviated to my friends and then to drugs, leaving my job along the way. On the other hand the grief in the bereaved mother’s heart was equally aggressive if not more but she walked in the opposite direction, deviating first to her profession and then to her co-workers, finally eloping abroad with a senior colleague. Since then, the emptiness that engulfed my life has hardly ever loosened its vicious grip, aided by the social stigma of being a divorcee. The reality started showcasing my loneliness with a newfound enthusiasm and I started distancing myself from the real world.
Only those who tried to live in solitude have truly felt the burden of loneliness and if one is forced to remain idle at the same time, sanity would surely start hanging by a mere thread in no time at all. The fear of losing my last shreds of sanity was like the sensation of drowning, so when I came across the monologues of Hamlet by Shakespeare, I held on to it like a piece of straw, my last hope of keeping my sanity alive. Soon enough an urge began to form in my mind as an urge grows to respond when one is listening to the cherished thoughts of joy and pain from another soul. Succumbing to that urge, I picked up a pen and paper and started replying to Hamlet’s woes, telling him that I have mine too, not too different from his. That is how I began pledging my love to the Muse of Poetry, Two Thousand and Five years after Lord Jesus was born from the pious womb of Virgin Mary, as the Savior of the world.
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