Thank you dear subscribers, we are overwhelmed with your response.
Your Turn is a unique section from ThePrint featuring points of view from its subscribers. If you are a subscriber, have a point of view, please send it to us. If not, do subscribe here: https://theprint.in/subscribe/
I have been infrequent Diary writer; how many years have passed since I have last written in Diary; 13.8.2002 is the last small note. Anyway, it is wonderful, I do love my writings in Diary, and I like to write. Nonetheless, it is a fact that I have failed to write. Am I an impulsive writer? Perhaps.
In fact, writing is an active and constructive way of thinking process. Thinking goes on, thoughts come, linger; some for a while, others linger for longer. But all go away sooner or latter. While they are there in mind, they imprint their effects on me to constitute what I am. Therefore, the answer to: What I am, lies deeply embedded in the mind that is such a huge complex, yet so small that no one can see it, though every one knows, feels, experiences from moment to moment its existence so near that one is never without it. It has glued to me since times immemorial, though I learn of myself through my mind for a limited period of space & time.
Thinking is a continuous process of living, like breathing, eating, drinking and so on. While others like eating, etc can wait and can also be controlled, like breathing, thoughts/thinking can also be controlled but can not be stopped till death and it is also believed that mind does exist, even after death, in formless, bodiless, invisible like a being… a ghost is said to be its worst being and God is said to be its pious, saintly being. The point is that one cannot be a living being without having his mind, actively involved all the time with his being.
Since last a month or so i.e. since beginning of 2005, it has become consistently obvious and glaringly clear to me that I am feeling contended and no more eager to live on and on. In fact, I am feeling a sort of wanting for end of my living. It does not mean, however, that I am suicidal. Far from it, I have become rather a knowledgeable that there is an end soon to come for me and I find it very interesting that I am looking forward everyday for it to come and no scaring of it. Everyday, I wake up with this longing for death to come… it is as if I am eagerly waiting for it to come. I find myself wondering how it could be so nice so that there can be fresh new beginning. Somehow, I am strongly convinced that in my life, nothing is now in store for me to achieve, there is just a whiling away of time…
Yet, it’s not true that I am suffering the living. Rather, it has become so obvious to me that there is more satisfaction in dying than living on and on. I feel that my innings are over and I am in a waiting for a final call or rather recall from where I have come. While living on, till the other day, there appeared to be some subsistence, some purpose, some meaning, and semblance of logic. Suddenly, since 2005, I find a loss of all that was holding my desires and prudence for living.
I find myself struggling to return to my roots from where I got in this being…. that soil and its elements, which have created me, are calling me back to lie for rest …I, therefore, find myself awaiting so eagerly for Him (the Death) to meet me like my long lost, old friend.
Nevertheless, I do know: wanting makes everything sore. Therefore, it is not something that I want. It’s the feeling of being free to leave, no cause, no desire, no expectation, no craving, no aversion…. It is just a serenity of leaving that I smell of, and feel so happy, so eager and awaiting! This is what I had to write down before I forget!
These pieces are being published as they have been received – they have not been edited/fact-checked by ThePrint.