Procrastination


Seated on a large boulder at the center of the cemetery, with her journal open in her lap, she looked ahead at the flowing water at the end of the path; her eyes unfocused, deep in thought. Rainbow of different colors danced in front of her eyes, but unseeingly she stayed where she was lost in deep thought. With her hands placed on her cheeks, she felt the urge to laugh, great gusty shouts of laughter that would ring far and wide over the snow covered mountains. Her love for beauty and nature brought her here, her present state of mind suggested that she should be around humans once in a while but her feet brought her to this spot every day. It had become a ritual for her, to come here, sit on the boulder and lose herself in thoughts while her journal was always kept empty.

She rolled her pen between her thumb and index finger, trying to come to terms with the reality. Life is beautiful; she often heard people say but her mind always questioned her; “Was it really?” She was ridiculed again and again for her lack of zest for life, for not being happy but she wasn’t able to come to terms with the facts. Her depressed mind only registered the negative things that were being said to her, she felt like living in a shell in which only the low, menacing and hurtful words penetrated her and emblazoned in her mind. She sometimes felt the urge to run away, to get out of this phase, this dilemma which was eating her day by day, hour by hour, and minute by minute but she was helpless. Her body rejected what her mind decided because at the back of her mind she had questions, questions about herself, questions about her past, questions about her present, questions about her future but they all remained unanswered.

She needed answers and those answers were with no-one. Suddenly, a beautiful, yellow and white colored spotted butterfly flew in the line of her vision, bringing her back to reality. She looked around, at the mud covered ground, at the graves around her, at the silence of death surrounded her with only a colorful butterfly in its midst. She looked quite out of place in such a place as this, and suddenly she realized her reason for living, her reason for breathing every single breath. She closed her journal and stood up. She understood what life was, how beautiful it was to spend every single breathing moment. Shakespeare once said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.” It was time to play her part now.

 

 

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