5/01/2015

HIGH SCHOOLS DAYS

The echo of the voices from my memory resounds loud in the vast vacant space within me. The memory as it pulls the gone timeline to the very present is all potential to ever readily shoot me back in the time, for which I am in deep longing now. The part of me, already bygone, seeks to return as one vengeful spirit yearning to be reanimated and do the things left undone yet desired. And even as I see the blank walls of my living room, the familiar old emptiness throws call to be looked upon. Memory is the only portal through which I can respond to the subconscious voices and visit my recent ancient days. It is the only medium by which I can allow myself to time-travel and be guided by its magical string in the subconsciously existence of the yesteryear's map.

The thick darkness of the compact room of my present suffocates me but the lit spacious space shared among my peers then, allows me breathing. The small area whereon I live, in all its providence of comfort, still runs short to be compared to the great liveliness the place I lived gave.  The mean walls of now returns only fraction of my wails. The other walls would break itself in the emission of united ruffian shouts. Much are the differences.

The lawless freedom I see now, free of austere guidance, yet there is more pleasure still in remembering the strict obedient times lived. Past, however bitter it may be but somewhere concealed  along with would be the flavour of the sweetness; the sweetness that uplifts the elements and figures of the memory. The unforgivable becomes piteous, the respected and loved, legends and their imprints in mind, the treasure. Adherence to the past keeps me walking to the future. Memory is solace. And remembering, the ultimate living.

And I live these days with the firm memory of my recent-ancient school days. Time has changed the people and people have changed the places. Unchanged, alone, stands the memory. ‘Change’ – inasmuch – always strikes a sad note into me. In spite of its inevitability, however, - ironically – the creation of the memory becomes the highest boon of it; memory that links yesterday to today and today for tomorrow.

In the medium of my memory, so, I live in my high school – the seedling to my future. 


P.S. Happy Teacher's Day to all the Teachers. Buddha's blessings be upon you all for the biggest role you play and the greatest responsibilities you hold in building the lives of youth, saving nations and protecting the Earth ultimately. 

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