Those dreadful writers

Want to be happy?
Be ignorant as the youth
Who has yet to discover the insatiableness of desire?
The fruitlessness of fulfillment
Who is blind with strength and exuberance
Who has yet to see the inevitableness of defeat?
Who has just started life
And death is not visible yet
With every stride, he comes near the coffin
Realizing the short span of life
Wishing he could live long
Till he becomes old, wise but unhappy
Discovering what a miserable comedy life had been
Brain, body, intelligence begin to decay
Death plays with life – as a cat with a mouse
At the end – non existence

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The fear of death begins
A final cause for religion
The awful fear of death
Makes him believe in immortality
Theology is a refuge from death
Like insanity – a refuge from pain
Madness cuts consciousness
Like knife through butter
It helps to forget the memory of suffering
The ultimate asylum is suicide
But life laughs at it
Is suicide a vain and foolish act?
The individual ends
Pain and misery go on
There cannot be victory
Man has a right to live, they say
Why does not man have a right to die?
The world should accept the will
Was man’s birth consulted?

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Those dreadful writers

All and the sundry seems to be unsecured. Or at least feels insecure. Everybody needs a fortification. Some envelop themselves building a career, business, money and power, others with books, music, writing, art, etc. They engulf themselves with these frivolities.

Let’s take the case of books. Some surround themselves with Mills & Boons, Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, Ian Fleming, Frederick Forsythe, Alistair McLean, Mario Puzo, John Grisham, Jeffrey Archer, Irwin Wallace, P G Woodhouse, Robert Ludlum – others with Edgar Allan Poe, Dickens, Chesterton, G B Shaw, Flaubert, Maupassant, Balzac, H G Wells, Gibran, Twain, O’ Henry, Oscar Wilde, Samuel Butler, Thomas Hardy, Victor Hugo – and still others with Dostoevsky, Shakespeare, Sartre, Freud, Russell, Camus, Arthur Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Franz Kafka, Kant, Marx, Rousseau, Kierkegaard, Voltaire etc.

Perhaps it’s an endeavor to gain knowledge, possibly an effort to form a defense mechanism, or maybe an attempt to portray a halo of intelligence?

Where will all this lead to?

Why has he swallowed himself up with such dreadful writers?

He becomes both, confused and influenced. His mind is no longer his, having filled it with such garbage. He lands into depression. Can he come out of it? Is this a passing phase? With age and time will his ideas, views, opinions and personality change? Will he again start to look for fresh trash?

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