Who shall recall that I once walked the journey of life 200 years from now? Did my capricious mind ever face this question in the myriad of emotions it faced?
As I chased horizons with changing goalposts, little did I realise that I will never hold it within the folds of my palm. When I did, it granulated like sand and found its way through crevices.
As I sat on the galloping horse called time, little did I know that her strides weren’t to shorten, long after I had dismounted her saddle.
What did I believe when I built my castle of ego and shielded it with my sword of anger only to find that its spires were to be broken by winds of destiny?
Where are the journeymen of yore – the ones who boarded my train only to depart at their own stations? Why did I fall prey to their smiles and tears, to the glance of innocence and the stares of envy?
Was life a snare I had to gnaw my way out of, or a maze I had to work into? After all, did it ever matter, for who was to recall me 200 years thence?