ironical

Old buildings being rebuild over and over again; kites flying in the sky;birds chirping;teenagers roaming aimlessly with phones in their hands; kids playing; toddlers crying in their cradles;men discussing politics and hundreds of unknown people moving to and fro. The sight has been the same for the past ten years since i have shifted here.Only difference is the role reversal: toddlers becoming kids, kids becoming teenagers and teenagers leaving to chase their dreams, coming back to discuss politics and watching their kids doing the same thing. Those men discussing politics then settle down back in places, that remind them of where they come from, and finally stop running when they meet their very destiny: Death.

The thought of Death fills me with fear. Fear of Death is a normal thing, even for a dying person.
I turn my gaze from the window near my bed and stare at the ceiling. A dying person looking for a symbol of life, i don’t know whether it is more tragic or ironical.I feel awkward. The feeling of awkwardness is quite awkward. Maybe that’s why it is called awkward.
I remember the accident i met with a few hours ago.
Through the Central park, i could see a stranger with memories near that coffee shop, with a photograph in his hands, probably mine! Feeling caught between my future and past and present;i tried walking backwards.But i was struck !
Not being strong enough to confront my own past, i felt wounded.I looked at that face, a thousand memories flashed back in my mind and i wiped a tear.
Memories that never leave.
A smile, A letter, A Carnival, A Dance, A Tear,A Misunderstanding,Fire and it’s all over.
There were just so many things i needed to forget right at that very moment, but i could not. Preaching to move on is easy, applying that in real life is not.
With my past haunting me, i stepped backwards and failed to notice a Tram coming right towards me.
I remember being hit.And i feel pained.

The scars on my skin are fresh.
The wounds on my soul are not,
But still, the wounds hurt all the more than the scars do.

Somebody knocks and i am back in present, lying down in my own bed, with people running trying to save my life.
“Come in!”. I say.
The doctor enters and much relieved to see me conscious,sighs. He checks my pulse; and adjusts the Glucose pump.
“You are so lucky to come out alive from such an accident. A lot many people won’t have make it. You must be very strong.”
“Not as strong as i used to be.” I think. with my past haunting me and calling me again and again with no place left for me to hide, it’s better to be dead.

The doctor looks at my report and says, “It appears you are going to live no matter what !”

“Ironical ! ” I mutter.

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