Childhood

     One who lives a life without high aspirations will treasure all the more the memory of his own youth and childhood. As it is, the sentimental recollection marks his awareness of post-middle age decline rather than his discovery of anything truly remarkable in the bygone days. Life is of course precious to anyone because he will pass through it but once. But one will long remain fresh and vigorous, if he identifies himself with the broad masses of people and day in, day out does his bit for the good of the public. Although, being subject to the law of nature, he too will eventually become aged and die, yet his cause — the public cause — will be everlasting. He will enjoy perennial youth in spirit. Those who dream away their life without doing anything useful are taking from this world much more than they are giving to it until at last they are too enfeebled to take any more and die of weariness. Consequently, a sad feeling of getting senile weighs heavily on their mind like a lump of lead. All they do is bemoan the transience of youth!

      Childhood is lovely in terms of our erstwhile childish ignorance. In those early days, everything was new to us. Every day we were something of a great scientist or philosopher. Every day we discovered something new — new phenomena or new truth. What about now? Now we know everything only too well. We are tired of seeing every familiar human face. The whole universe and society seem stale and boring to us though, in fact, they have a lot more new things now than when we were in our childhood. Hence I feel nostalgic for my childhood and pray for it.

      When we cease to advance any more, we are inclined to fall back a few paces and indulge in reminiscences of the path we have already trodden. We pray for the return of "childish ignorance" so as to re-experience the joy of knowledge-seeking. O this cessation of life! How horrible it is!

      What is gone is gone, and what is to come is to come. What are my innermost feelings of it?

Looking into the sunset

Looking into the sunset I can't help but notice

that despite her beauty

a sense of struggle and hopeless surround the sky 

Deep inside you realize that this day is gone

and everything that It had brought is lost forever

Every thought every action every dream,every hope

every sight  every sound is gone

There is no chance of every being returned the same

exactly the same

For every moment has a limit to what it can capture

Every memory has a limit to what it had retrieve

And the colours in the sky try to entertain us

one last act with painted smiles

for they too know that nothing can be done to save the day

So futile their attempt to comfort our fear of the night

our horror as we try to find our way

like children who wander into a forest and never return

I am ingratiated by the sunset because of

her sensitivity as she tries to push the darkness

back for just a moment more

But like so many times before....to no avail