Passing of a Friend

A friend from my college days passed away recently. I had not been in touch with him for years - over ten - and got to hear from him very recently and that too, after knowing that he was terminally ill and was fighting to stay alive. A cold sort of empty feeling is what surrounds me when I think of it. His family, loved ones, children... it seems unfair.

Yes I know life is not fair. It has never been so, and in milder ways I have experienced the way it brushes off anyone's feeble attempts to resist being pulled along with its whims and fancies. That does not offer clarity or suggest a way out in a moment like this

Death brings to mind the superficiality of so many things we say and do - even declaration of relationships. It springs on one the mix of feeling and unfeeling which holds the same questions about choosing to be selfish or unselfish, and whether achievements have any significance, in the world patched up with currency streams whirling around power vortices.

My feelings on ram's passing rest only in the memory of very childish laughter and pranks that we shared as friends,it would be a slight and a pain to try and share his family's bereavement. I rest my commmiserations, like a small unnoticeable bunch of petals among the huge wreaths of love that my friend's family offer as a tribute to his memory.

dazzled by the heroics

why does one not write ? It's a very very good question isn't it... but one which has no easy answer, or perhaps there just is not point in answering this.

between the nameless formless darkness of the undefined present and the vision of having it out in words, there is only a painful feeling that something must be said, if not for the benefit of the onlookers, then for oneself. Naturally the second person even may have zero interest in what you write...

so the question finally is.. why must one at all write?