Life is a rainbow for those who embrace its colours with love. Life is a maze for those who easily loss themselves in its mystery. Life is a challenge for those who fight to survive. And a story for those who continually weave its flow, no matter along or against the tides of time. But when all is said and all is done, and every page of life has come to its own end, the epilogues of life, are often ignored in a hurry to keep the first book down and start a new one. What of the last chapters of life? What are those like? Are they to be feared every time we stitch together a new tale, or embraced with the same vigour, we fought, to be “the” egg that was accepted for existence?
What comes after “end” is oblivion, a space no one has survived to delineate. Is it like something we have experienced before? Maybe everyday, maybe someday. Depends on the kind of life you chose to live. And more so, the kind of rain, you wished you drench in.
Rain, with its varying forms and expressions, leaves a different impact in each life it touches. So does death. There is no alarm to predict when, nor a jar to measure how much. Sometimes, the weather department may be able to hint an accurate measure of it’s intensity, but ultimately it’s the master of its own commands. The Weather man is on the mercy of the clouds, every time he predicts the unpredictable arrival.
Sometimes it’s gentle, a mere touch, sufficient to quench the thirst of the land. Sometimes, so vigorous, that its wrath cannot be faced. Sometimes, so fragile, that ignorance is all we can impart. Sometimes, slow enough to prepare us of what is to come. And sometimes, thunderous enough to snatch everything in sight, in a single blink of the eye. Adulating the panache of its mighty fury, the rambunctious monsters of lighting and thunder, may sometimes announce its arrival. But sometimes, indolent and slothful in approach and some other times, threatening only amongst the nested shadows of the clouds it rests within.
Sometimes, you yourself might want to dance in the soft drops, that cleanse the souls done with their time, bearing the animosity of human ignorance for long and leaving behind a treasure of memories, they had once shared. A relief from the clutches of a life, no longer respected or abnegated of existence. Simply forgotten.
Sometimes, a storm of raucous dignity, leaving half written stories, pages left to be filled. Uprooting all of a sudden, all that once stood for who we were and who we wanted to be. Cause never is the soul shattered forever. It’s rather, lost in the tornado of time, never to be mentioned again.
Or it could be just the same, ordinary, windy, precipitation of common world, nothing but a mere part of the water cycle. Coming in, probably, to us teach us lessons, we so often ignore to understand.
Each drop is a life passing by. Each storm, a story unwritten. But with the correct measure of light and water, of the sun rays and droplets reflected off our souls, something so mystical yet beautiful could be woven, the spectrum of seven colours. The mirrors of life, may not do that at once. But with every falling drop and drifting cloud, is a trouble gone by, a chance to complete our story once again and a hope to find the lost sunlight amidst the dark clouds of life.
And once we know how to withstand the vagaries of this rain, living would no longer be a journey towards the epilogue of death, but rather, a story- well written, well read.