In Death, In Solitude
- Hashtag Kalakar
- Jan 14
- 2 min read
Updated: Jul 15
By Hussain Kachwala
I sit on the edge of life's borders and wonder when I will finally take my leave from the mortal realm.
An echoed voice tells me I have stayed for longer than I should have.
What's there to stop me from staying on this side of the ledge or taking the plunge into the void, becoming one with it?
The thought of not being alone for once seems warm enough to take the final step.
If I go, the wounds I have suffered will cease to pain me, and those that will arrive with time simply will not. Yet the cost of giving up everything scares my frugal mind.
If I stay, there is hope that things will get better as I do, and the wounds will become distant memories, too unimportant to remember. Yet the uncertainty of tomorrow scares me.
If I cross the border, do I bear guilt? For I know someone will be hurt if I go. But in an existence where I cease to exist, do I care about them anymore? Part of me wishes I do.
Or will the superficial mourning die out within a few cries, as the routine set prior needs to be followed to the last detail?
Staying means being alone again. Alone as I sit on this ledge, alone as I face the world, alone as I eat, and alone as I weep. But here, I still live, to feel. Feel something, however pleasurable or hurtful it may be, but at least feel.
Leaving means accepting the void. Giving up my flesh to become one with it and gain it as my friend, as my companion, as my comrade, as someone who will not leave me. But there, I no longer live, no longer feel, no know what happiness is.
Life takes, death gives. Death takes, life gives.
I have to choose one, or time chooses it for me.
For some life is beautiful, for others death is liberation. For me? I haven't decided yet.
It feels balanced here in a way, being in the middle of nowhere and everywhere all at once.
A compromise between harmony and discord.
I sit on the edge for a little while longer. For there are more stories to tell before I go.
By Hussain Kachwala

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