Streetlights

The moon was shining. The sea in front of me was a molten metallic mess swaying side to side in the picture I framed between my weary eyes. All my limbs were dead but my brain was far away drawing imaginary things with smoke and dust, and in that immobile trance I was thinking of me being in the back of a truck counting lights, streetlights more precisely.

Death is the rule, survival is exception. I learnt that the hard way after a hairline escape from what could have potentially been a fatal accident. So, the fact that trillions of cells are not losing it any moment is a miracle, and the probability that all of them are working in concert is minuscule. Hence it is safe to conclude that we are all part of a series of exceptional events that are happening continuously over and over. What do we do while we are here? From what I have learnt and lived so far, we are all products of elaborate fictions. Fictitious notions of good and bad, right and wrong, black and white. Notions that guide our intuitions about other objects that surround us which forms this intricate mesh that we experience as life. How do we measure life? Happiness, perhaps is the actual currency of life. We all trade it, plan for it and have to earn it.

I read all the great philosophers, writers scientists who I highly revere and I go — we sure are a tiny flash in the 14 billion years old cosmos.

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