It
is in the plainest of the sense, if a man and his life is to be seen,
What
should I make of it, if not an interstice between his creation and then an
inevitable ceasing to be?
With
each breath that relays through me and with each moment, meaningful enough to substantiate
my being;
I
see no better a version of truth out of many truths so called, that it is the
end of mortal stretch of my existence, scaled most dispassionately and with
disregard to my insecurities by the consistence of change.
Nothing
it is for that matter, my life, which is a mere illustration of a notion;
That
what has commenced deserves a conclusion, creation of what is, is destined to
be bound by the destruction of what was,
I and my life are the fact of the times, earmarked to be a memory
to tomorrow.
Life
is the child of time, like its parent entity it never rests but sustains
motion,
Governs
all by itself its greatest observers;
Who
are they if not us ?
Even
a man who has outrun his times, living as a relic, possess nothing
to bring him to surpass the cold hardness of time.
We
are confined on potency and yielding by life, thus.
As
I write these lines, it is my belief that they are strong,
Stronger
than anything pertaining me and this life of mine that I try to befriend, every
now and then.
It
is not my face that shall stay,
It
cannot, for it is that of a being marred by aging and mortal human condition,
it shall therefore wither away.
It
is not my voice,
Even
my last breath is not a providence for this assurance.
So,
beyond any reasonable doubt,
It
is not the life of a man it is about.
On
the contrary it is the life of a man’s deeds, which is to be measured and seen,
A
man, anymore or no more is a precursor to what he was and had been.
So
let my words and what I write be my deeds,
Allow
my deeds to etch what I am.
For
even though I shall come to pass, they shall continue to stay,
Let
each of them possess a fable to narrate,
About
a man who is and a man who would be, that would be me and me alone.
So,
I shall write, to satiate myself with the complacency, that forever I shall
live through them,
Being
outlived by my words is far better a rest I could ever achieve.
It
is not the immortality of being I seek,
for it is not an err the time would make,
What
I behold to achieve is a human virtue, rare and all satisfying.
A
state to be risen to and not be gained;
where
all that remains is not the man but his name,
immortal
in the pages of time, all the same.
