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The Quest of Eternal Mortality

My ode to survival

By Hridya SharmaPublished 2 months ago 3 min read

On Survival

The question of existence still haunts me in the silence of the stillness that loneliness brings with it. To be or not to be, to exist in the coexistence of dualistic forces, to dance with the uncertainty or to play it along the periphery, what I hold certain, has always questioned me, bemoaned me. Truth be told, I beheld the cry for help when its absence called in silent whispers around the blanket of dwelling and absconded its abundant presence over me. There is a painting that traces the bits of serenity in my life, the colors that adorn the hues of the almighty run deep through the veins of my soul to find the brevity of pain. I glance at the picture of Lord Krishna, reminiscing the days that passed by. Darkness sets its sterility in the brimming light of today, as the dawn of today paints itself in the colours of the dusk of yesterday.

Life in its nuanced presence trods into the specter of transcending timelines. It takes only one fleeting moment to change the narrative, to plonk someone’s existence from the beauty of abundance to the ugliness of pain. To belie in the elusiveness of perfection and happiness that is eternal is forever a lie, a paradise that does not exist. The world of innocence often seems to be a

distant dream, a forged deception, or probably the precursor of an event that shapes someone’s life differently. Innocence in its entirety drawled its being inside my soul and strode with light that warms the existence of the ones around it, the sunshine showed its radiance in my core. The place of fond memories and lifelong friendships, the school fostered to be the second home of many.

Teenage held the beauty of adolescence and the precedence of puberty. An academic scholar and a bookworm, I found my home in books and tales. Teenage- the rite of passage of young love, to nurture into a joy of forever, for me, turned into the troubled time of concealing my failed endeavours. Bullied for the way I looked, I questioned every bit of my soul. There is a saying- Troubled waters often build the toughest sailors. The looms of dark that entrenched the naivety of my being, to embrace strength was my only option to be seen. Happiness for far too long lost its way in the prime of innocent times, the bitterness of the world turned the taste of my childhood sublime.

I embraced strength when the nurture of my existence deserved ease. Chaos often leaves a void, a void that sometimes ceases to ever be filled. Though darkness subtends to the arrival of light, the scars it leaves always seem impossible to be healed. Time in its hammered wheelings mellowed its severity on my being as light embraced its presence in me through the hues of creations and the beauty of words.

The tapestry that I weaved often straddled between the joy of today and the melancholy of yesterday. Words that healed and words that broke, the existence of my soul applauded in zeal, the existence of my soul deflated with the words that choked. The only constant that danced in its unstoppable essence was the existence of the eternal stream. The dichotomy of colours that the painting moulded itself in was the symbolism of strength. To the stars who listened and the dreams they answered, the conspicuous yearning that stayed with me still left its marks in the void of my heart.

Poetry is the language of the soul, I spoke my truth in the depths of my poetry. Time passed its trail and the void in my heart started to heal itself. To be or not to be is still a question that belies itself in the harbour of my soul. I still glance at the painting, confronting my tears, and comforting myself in my fears. Sometimes I express gratitude to him for all that I have, sometimes I trace the sadness that encompasses its hues in the painting with a sigh. What I am in this moment I know is enough, yet I look at the painting contemplating the light that could have radiated my soul if the veils of darkness hadn’t encompassed me as a whole.

The dreariness of the silence that loneliness creeps itself in the hind, often tormenting me of what I could find. To be lost in a land where I could not be found, to find a home in the innocence that lost its way in the chaos around. To dance with the waves of uncertainty that in itself unties, to be or not to be is a question that in my mind still lies.

-Hridya Sharma

Young AdultthrillerStream of ConsciousnessShort StorySeriesScriptSci FiSatirePsychologicalMysteryMicrofictionLoveHumorHorrorHolidayHistoricalFantasyFan FictionfamilyFableExcerptClassicalAdventure

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Hridya Sharma

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    Hridya SharmaWritten by Hridya Sharma

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