It is 16th January, 2015. It will be 16th February, 16th March... soon. What is a date, month or a year to me? Nothing but a jumble of numbers and words in my mind. They have absolutely no significance to me. They come and go, uninvited and uncherished; forgotten soon in the melee of life. The mornings, afternoons and the nights are a blur within each other. Only the evenings are mine, for thoughts, dreams and frustrations. And the serene hour in the early morning when I water the plants and they seem to wait for me eagerly, nodding with content after their thirst is quenched.
'Caught in a strange land in a net with other butterflies, I'm a caterpillar yet undecided to remain a caterpillar and perish or turn into a beautiful butterfly and live a life full of joy.' Readers don't laugh. But I came up with this one night recently when I was travelling in a train. I tossed and turned, not being able to sleep, upset over unexplainable things and frustrated over events not in my control. Then it occurred to me that our life and its usefulness depends on our decisions -- whether to remain a crawling caterpillar whose existence otherwise is either ignored by all and sundry or who is cursed for just being there and thrown out with a stick, or to develop wings of life and metamorphose into a beautiful butterfly whom everybody adores for its beauty and colour, for its flitting liveliness, for its service to the flower's pollination... I thought that I should be a butterfly, of service to others, but then again I thought, anyway, who really cares?
aint time an illusion?
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