Into The Sun

You give credence to what I’ve known all along. I believe that everything we do everyday is an unconscious step towards the happy ending that we want to write for our own individual story. We may not know it, but that’s really what we’ve been busy with.

We have been on an unrelenting quest for our singular happy ending.

You are proof.

Loneliness and being alone are momentary episodes. Long-drawn misery is such a cliché. Wintry streets do not remain cold forever. Sure we stumble and bumble, but you have picked yourself up one too many times. I admire your tenacity for rising back like the proverbial phoenix.

That is why I don’t underestimate the capability of humans. Man can take care of himself, with or without fate or luck. He (or she) has far more resilience stored up than we give him (or her) credit for. Really.

And now as you walk into the sunset, you are once again part of a metaphor that you absolutely want to figure in.

We can all fade into the sunset. We just have to set our sights on that glow on the horizon. And, my dearest friend, that big ball of fire up ahead ain’t an illusion.

I gaze at your slowly disappearing figure set against the immense backdrop of a fiery reality. You know as much as I do that you will find either a warm home or get consumed in complete conflagration somewhere there where you’re headed.

And now that you’ve decided to write a happy ending to your story, you will learn – as I have learned a long time ago – that a happy ending is not an end. It is actually only the beginning.

I was once a romantic, too. I used to think that the mind and imagination are the shapers of destiny, and not reason. But that was at a time long, long ago and in a kingdom far, far away. The only romantic notion left with me today is the belief in revolutions that transform peoples, as I still believe that revolutions are emotional endeavors and not intellectual efforts. Hungry stomachs spur revolts.

In the dire poverty of the society that I grew up in, I used to make my own paper dolls and their appropriate clothes made out of art paper that cost 20 centavos apiece. Being the eldest of two children, I was an only child in my first four years on earth. Those paper dolls kept me company. I would concoct stories in my mind and provide dialogue for my paper dolls, as I play out scenes with them. All the harshness and pain that I’ve seen have robbed me of the joy of creating and playing with those paper dolls. Those stories all have happy endings.

My paper dolls will be consumed in a second in that sun you’re headed to.

But this article is not about my story. It belongs to you.