For Now, I Celebrate the End.

I tend to linger on the ends rather than the beginnings.
So I have been thinking about mortality.
The process of death, not the physical particulars of it, but the feeling of it.
When Alexander Supertramp was dying deep into the woods, surrounded by the thrashing waters that once was frozen, it killed me seeing his eyes carrying the weight of his existence, the sadness of it, the revolution of it, all and everything—not conversed.
You need another set of eyes, to reflect your own mortality.
I think that, before going away, your life doesn’t flash before your eyes, it flashes in their eyes— the people that surround you, and lying down, looking up you get to feel, what it meant to be alive in that particular space and time.
The last day of Choitro.
Unbearable harsh tone of the day could easily blindfold you to think that it is not mourning. I know the air and the leaves will be overjoyed by tomorrow’s Boishakh, but for now,
I celebrate the end.

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