This number does not exist.
perhaps it did. may be it used to. but not anymore.
this is the final act. the act that you have been waiting for. the act no one wants to miss. this is where the story ends. this is the climax. after this, you can get up and leave the show. and watch another. perhaps, a better one.
the illusion of togetherness has always fooled man and always will. from the beginning and till the end of time. what was before time and what comes after it is the real truth. the truth that sinisterly resembles nothingness, void. the truth of all truths. the truth that life is a prisonhouse. and that one is getting punished for some celestial sin that one did beyond the realms of memory. to lead the life of a puppet in the hands of an unknown puppeteer is ever so miserable.
to think that one's life is not one's own. "It's my life" is the biggest lie one can tell oneself. cos life just doesn't belong to one. can anyone ever tell what's gonna happen in the very next moment of one's existence? Life is a blind walk through ways already drawn out for one. like cattle walking in the dark. a stinking dark. and you are just another cattle. walking slowly and steadily to the slaughterhouse. slowly and steadily and all by yourself.
they trod, they run,
they sing, they smile,
they rush, they ease,
and find themselves
in death's arms..
Life and its mad rush. Life and its pointlessness. The meaninglessness that resides in the core of superficial meaning. How long do one survive deceiving oneself?
Perhaps it's time for the curtains to fall. For life to fail. perhaps this is when you get your ticket out of the prison. When time ends, and you begin.