Death is the last intimate thing that we ever get to do.
– Laurell K. Hamilton (Writer)
The piece works best when it’s read with the track playing in the background.
A drained out man – caught between his primal instincts and the gnawing sting of a screaming conscience – waddling through whatever ‘life’ is left of him – in a vain struggle at silencing his mortally-escalating inner demons…
How would such a person perceive deliverance?
When put in a situation, where he could let his own nemesis seek justice as an informed choice, for every single voice that had tormented him for years, how would he react?
How much more gratifying can the curtains to his troubled existence get?
Would every painful detail of destiny play out in looping freeze-frames over this moment?
The mystical odds of a particular event among the endless possible permutations…
The sea of manifold repercussions…
The flurry of the agonizing could-have-beens’ into the weary man’s blazing subconscious…
You don’t need water to feel like drowning, do you?
On hindsight, the decisions that could have mattered; the intuitions that could have made a difference.
Wounds that defy prognosis. The moral compassing that never seems to relent.
Where are the answers?
In this man’s decision to hand himself over to the design, what is the thing that makes him conceive his existential release as poetic?
Inside his head, what is he apparently making peace with?
Himself? His days that had been reduced to a meaningless actuality? His super-ego? Or a part of him that wants to end it all with a truly fitting absolution…
அந்த காலனின் வாசனை
என் சாவை ஆள்கிறேன்!
Music: Jakes Bejoy