This is about the man, whose heart was splayed by a bullet. Whose blood spread on road like ink on paper.The irony about the man is that , he had stolen money to sustain the life that was slipping away before his very eyes. And he wasn't dying a noble man. What do you think would be his final thoughts ? Would he desperately pray to an imaginary diety, would he think about the faces of the people he had loved, if any ? would he repent ? Would he lose control. Would he stop thinking because..it is pointless to argue with uncertainty. It has no face. It is everywhere, clouding everything a man thinks he owns.
Then Would he let it go? Learning to let go. The unwanted lesson life teaches us so often. Wouldn't letting go of life, dim every sense, every memory , every feeling he ever felt. Wouldn't he laugh at the efforts of writers and poets to grasp that which is so mediocre, so plain, so without taste of anything extra ordinary.
Just a simple act of ..seeing your life abandon you. like falling asleep. Is death eventually that uneventful ?
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