The Sum of All Wanderings

 

Our life —
a random walk,
with a wishful thought —
that the sum
of all the wanderings,
and all the climbings,
might add up to something
more than
just a naught.

Where is He Going?

 

Once again,
Kunnu (that would be me)
finds a kitchen cabinet
left ajar—

his mind,
forever rushing,
forgetting to close
the doors behind.

Where is he going,
always,
in such a hurry?

To greet—
his eventual end?

Where is He Going?

 

Someday,
there comes a moment—
a quiet moment—
of giving back
all that we borrowed:

to love, to hate,
to hope, to despair,
to create, to destroy,
to smile, to cry,
to care, to ignore,
to rejoice, to mourn,
to covet, to give,
to steal, to return,
to envy, to praise,
to live—
and then, to forget.

The Perfect Fading

 

If given a choice, I would wish for the arc of my life—its gentle descent into death—to resemble the slow, spiraling drift of a star circling a black hole. Not a violent or a sudden fall, but a measured approach, with my mind still clear and my body still capable—capable enough not having to lean on someone for every breath, for every step.

I want it to be an arc where the mind, acutely aware of the nearing event horizon, will enter that boundary not with regret of something ending, but with the grace of something ending well.

A quiet surrender. A return home.

I want within me a calm acceptance when it is time to give back the calcium I borrowed to shape the scaffolding of my bones.

That, to me, would be the perfect arc—the quiet fading of life into the inevitability of death.