My last article, a couple of years old, was about a curse. The curse of writing.
I said, some of us, we write because we are cursed, we have no other way to live, we have to pour out what we have bubbling inside us, and for some it’s art, others it’s music, and for yet others, the ones who have no recourse of higher expression, we are limited to plain simple words. As an artistically challenged human, yet again, I fall under the last category, words are what I have to do with.
There are very few things that humans have not conquered, from mountains and valleys, hunger to disease, to the oceans and space, we have seen it all, and done it all. But one final frontier remains, death. And from what I know, what I’ve seen, what I feel, it’s unconquerable or at-least I hope so.
Sad it will be the day, when we conquer death I must say. Because irony of ironies, the day we beat death, is a day we sign the death sentence on beauty. For beauty has its value predicated on its limitedness, in contrast to the rest of the non-beautiful. And without the time barrier, anything can be moulded and altered and changed into a copy of what real beauty is, beating the value of actual beauty.
And for what it’s worth, I hope death reigns, and beauty remains.
Because, only then, I can aspire to live a life of beauty, and I don’t wish to have a world any other way.
