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Arbitrary but Tangible


Md. Tamhidul Islam


“I am certain that you are to fail unless you listen,” Distress gloated.

He answered tremblingly, “While one fails continuously under the shades of the social construct called life, falling in rejection of the acceptance of a weightless moment for taking a deep breath and acknowledging the failure, the truth shall be bestowed upon the individual. Truth is, dereliction is a Déjà vu which resurrects incessantly starting from the instance light falls on his eyes. That, in and of itself, is the biggest failure. It reaffirms the fact that we only fail once in our lives, but feel it reappearing under various mediums and dimensions. Nativity is what fuels that Déjà vu and inaugurates that impotent journey of misery which is inevitable.”

“The Sun has risen, wake up,” Dominance ordered.

He responded with discomposure, “These sentences represent nothing more or less than a set of meaningful but pointless words. Time is a non-existent fiction cut out as a graveyard for the human population. One of the preset cognitive thoughts of the sentiment in me is creating immense pressure upon me. That is to say, we took a round object and cherished it with numbers — something which cannot tie a person’s satisfaction and beyond, and I abided by the rules. Thus, time still haunts us in a prison-cell called life. But I knowingly never bother to ask myself a question, “Why day is called day and night called night?” Again I remain in the chains of a constant insurgency of the overpowered yet unnecessary construct called time.”

“You need to pull yourself together in order to stitch a life and live,” Death exclaimed.

 He boastfully replied, “Life, myriad words tie us to the ground ever so vigorously. We begin the process of death the moment we are born. The destinations manufactured in our head to symbolise milestones, milestones reflecting progression towards death. Isn’t the only goal of birth to perish in the end? Every breath we inhale marks another moment astray, another war lost. Then what is there to stitch, in this fabricated labyrinth concluding in one harbor, Death?”

And slowly, they stopped talking to him. 

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