What is life?

Life. How fickle life is. How small life is.

It was just over an hour since she had left the station in tears, and even with a train full of people, she was aware that nobody knew what was going on with her life. Life is indeed quite volatile, she thought to herself wiping away a shadow of a tear etched across her undried face. Every individual on the train her eyes could perceive, was occupied in their own little bubbles of lives. How terribly sporadic and minuscule a life of a human is. There were all kinds of demographics Faith could see, children struggling to stay still beside their parents, babies struggling to wiggle away from their mothers’ laps, teenagers laughing at their phones trying to hide their insecurities, adults struggling to keep a stoic face by hiding their animosity for their life, and old people struggling to make the time stop.

We are born from the littlest atoms; we are born so tiny and fragile. It was a miracle Faith had managed to find a seat in a crowded train such as this, but she did manage to find one, else she would have had to wait another night. And somewhere along the line, we make up our mind that we are destined for great things. She knew it wasn’t her fault but she couldn’t help but chastise herself for not visiting for so long. However worse the circumstances, she always loved the trip to her hometown, but this time her gut had a feeling of familiar guilt and no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t get rid of it. Of course, it had been so long, she almost forgot what it felt like.

Matthew had always said to write about the things that bother you, and stretched on how much it had helped him. Closing her eyes, she could still hear the whistles of the train, the engine purring, and the racket of disturbance that followed in the body of the train. She let out a faint and guilty breath, then picked out a book from her bag, and a pen from her pocket.

We live life as it is a temporary arrangement of practice, unwilling to understand the true meaning of what being happy really entails. Her mind wandered all around the place, and with the commotion around her, she would’ve imagined her head explode before she reached home again. Home. Everything is only foreign until you step inside. We have a gift, we humans. We can call anything home, our old folk’s place, a cabin in the woods, a place in someone’s heart, the moon, a time of remembrance in someone’s prayers.

Matthew hadn’t changed. The last time she saw him, he was just beginning his new life and now he had been completely accustomed to it. Mother was a mess, given everything. Of course, she’d be, she just lost her best friend, the best friend she had had for the past 70 years. The town remained unchanged, the shops, the people, the neighbourhood, everything stayed constant. Even though nothing had changed, she felt foreign in the place she grew up. Maybe I have changed just too much.

You are born, you make places home, and you die. Is there a point anywhere? What is this cycle of emotionless pain for?

Faith was sitting in a coach, accompanied by a noisy family. The father held a baby in his arms and gently kept rocking it. The mother was struggling to keep the other infants in check while the oldest stood up and ran around in the aisle. Faith let out a slow breath, remembering if she could of any memories from her childhood. Their parents always said that Faith was a splendid child, she always held her own, never cried, never tormented, and never embarrassed them. Matthew, on the other hand, was a handful. She remembered her Dad always used to say, the gods sent us an angel, and to make up for it they’ve just spawned us the devil! Dad loved Matthew, everyone did. He was the youngest, and Faith only had fond memories of him. There was a certain age gap between the two that omitted any possibility of sibling rivalry or a possibility of Matthew basically being groomed by her. The gap was just perfect for them to be honest and friendly with each other.

Lives make lives. We arrive in this world with nothing but fragility, and we make our way through, only to spend it in a monotonous manner before we wither and finally collapse into an abyss waiting for us ever since we let out our first cry, our first breath, our first emotion…

“Excuse me, could you please hold this for me?”

Startled, Faith dropped her pen. She looked beside her and the mother of the bunch was holding out a towel of sort with crying hope in her eyes. Faith nodded, shut the book aside and held the towel for her. The mother pulled out a fruit and handed it over to one of the children. Then, picked the infant beside her and gestured for the towel back. Faith handed it to her, and she started cleaning the baby’s mouth. Faith looked at the new life, sparkling now, trying to grow its feathers, and learn to go out in the world. Life is a fickle thing, it is born, it is beautiful, and it dies. “Thank you.” The mother said and lovingly pulled the baby close to her chest, and started cradling it to sleep. Her eyes met with her husband who was doing the same, and he gave a slither of a smile. You are born, you love, and you die.

Faith smiled and reverted back to her book. She pulled it open, and her mind took her to another place. Love, I have known it. Children, I have not. I have known snippets of love. I have known the partiality of love. I haven’t been exposed to the eternal love. But, how can anything be eternal, when you are born, and you are destined to die?

Some time had passed, and silence danced in the corner of the train. The family beside her slept soundlessly, and most of the train got extremely quiet. You are born screaming, you live your life in a midst of chaos, and you die silently.

Faith looked at her watch, it was morning again, and she could see the sun rising from the window. Faith loved mornings, she always fancied the sunrise to the sunset, and without asking Matthew had booked her a seat adjacent to the window. Even though they had not met in quite some time, little things that people remember tend to put a smile on our faces.

Faith hadn’t realized when the tears stopped rolling down her cheeks. Her eyes may have gotten over it but her heart broke every moment she thought of her father. She promised herself that she would visit home more often now, and spend more time with her family, however long she has. You are born, you make up loved ones, you drift apart from the loved ones, and you die.

The wind in its infinite wisdom whispered her a secret, the trees promised to fulfil her wishes, the birds flew atop the skies giving a sense of harmonious togetherness. The sun rose from far away, and the yellow hit her eyes blinding her for a second. As soon as the first ray of sun hit her, it confirmed the secret let out by the dazzling wind. Faith smiled and affirmed that life is short, and yet life is long. Forever is a fantasy, and yet it is not. Eternity is a myth, and yet it is not. Loving someone in this life is not mortal, loving someone is everlasting. Life is capricious, you are born, you let out a breath, you find love, you lose people, you bring people into the world, and you die. But you stay in the memories of the loved ones you made along the way, and you live forever…

Faith sighed stress of relief and said a prayer in her mind that wherever her father is, he is happy, and he is fulfilled. She pulled the cap from her pen and started scribbling in her notebook.

Life. How fickle life is. How small life is. Indeed, life is quite volatile. How terribly sporadic and minuscule a life of a human is. We are born from the littlest atoms; we are born so tiny and fragile, and somewhere along the line, we make up our mind that we are destined for great things. We live life as it is a temporary arrangement of practice, unwilling to understand the true meaning of what being happy really entails.

Home. Everything is only foreign until you step inside. We have a gift, we humans. We can call anything home, our old folk’s place, a cabin in the woods, a place in someone’s heart, the moon, a time of remembrance in someone’s prayers. You are born, you make places home, and you die. Is there a point anywhere? What is this cycle of emotionless pain for?

Lives make lives. We arrive in this world with nothing but fragility, and we make our way through, only to spend it in a monotonous manner before we wither and finally collapse into an abyss waiting for us ever since we let out our first cry, our first breath, our first emotion…

Life is a fickle thing, it is born, it is beautiful, and it dies.

You are born, you love, and you die.

Love, I have known it. Children, I have not. I have known snippets of love. I have known the partiality of love. I haven’t been exposed to the eternal love. But, how can anything be eternal, when you are born, and you are destined to die?

You are born screaming, you live your life in a midst of chaos, and you die silently.

You are born, you make up loved ones, you drift apart from the loved ones, and you die.

Life is short, and yet life is long. Forever is a fantasy, and yet it is not. Eternity is a myth, and yet it is not. Loving someone in this life is not mortal, loving someone is everlasting.

Life is capricious, you are born, you let out a breath, you find love, you lose people, you bring people into the world, and you die. But you stay in the memories of the loved ones you made along the way, and you live forever.

You are born, you are loved, and you are eternal…