Days.

I don’t celebrate or give importance to any kind of anniversaries. In fact I have never in my life. Religious apprehension, though a prime one, is not entirely the reason for it. As witheringly unimaginative as it may sound, I prefer to believe that all days are special and that each day belongs to each and everyone of us. One day for me, one day for you, another day for us, yet another day for my mother… Any named day is merely a coincidence, ain’t it …? Or so have my naive mind gathered.

Maybe along the road, I might regret these chronological milestones as they eventually disappear, when life pays its dues on time. Yet I fear, a sure acceptance in that line shall bring forth an abrupt closure to any further afterthought… They say, each year, we are nearing our death point. One’s birthday, for instance, is going to end one day, and turn into a sad recollection of the opposite sort. If that’s so, is one moving forward and at the same time, also nearing one’s own end? Am I tipping towards the darker side of reality now? Am I simply turning skeptical and unappreciative?

Or perhaps cynicism is still a good thing. With not being punctual about certain dates, I assume, I also am not obliging myself to sorrow and mourning, on days that remind me of a loved one’s eternal absence. Except the obvious that, I have only the confined capacity to perceive anything and maybe essentially everything, through the tiny realm of my very limited outreach. Well, end of the day, I may never know… More importantly, I may never need to know.

Nevertheless, for all that is worth, I do wish one thing. That, everyday I shall love life as I know it, with all the amen there is. For, with all its gloomiest and brightest days, life itself is a very beautiful thing to reminisce on, look forward about and hold on to.