Life is parallel to an empty book. How it is to be filled and how much is to be filled, is entirely our call. It is our book. It is our life. Our book, our ink. Sometimes, we let others write our story, with their ink. And the story that they pen does not always have a fairy-tale ending. Why shoukd anyone else be given the right to write our story?
Life is funny. An epitome of paradoxes. Tears and smiles.
For a labourer, life is uncertain. It is getting up at dawn and toiling away till midnight to ensure that the wolf stays away from the door. It is a constant struggle for survival.
For a middle-class man, life is simply fulfilling the basic necessities of life, of climbing the success ladder, of being at par with the elite. It is a constant struggle for a better future, a better life, a successful life.
For the elite, life is a bed of roses maintained by a degree from a top-notch university, a high-paying job, or a family business that bears the cost of his life’s luxuries. It is a constant struggle for keeping pace with life’s little whims and fancies.
Life is sad. Unpredictable. Nothing is ever black or white. It is shaded. Ups and downs. Joy and sorrow. It is a bumpy road, one with unexpected bumps and turns. One never knows what to expect.
Life is like a DNA sequence. One wrong code can translate into a series of unforgettable mistakes, one that leaves indelible marks on your soul and sticks to you.
Life is a canvas. We are the artists spilling colours over it. We either paint a very colourful picture that brings an involuntary smile onto the observer’s face, or a tumultuous shadow that makes one pensive.
Life is like a flower. Pluck the petals, relish its scent, admire its colour, or prick your hands over its needles. The choice is ours. Always was. Always will be.
Life is an enigma. It is a question with a great many complex answers.
It will take one a lifetime to fathom life.’Nough said.