By: Zain Maken

What do we take with us when we die? Do we take the grades we achieved while in schools and universities, the success we obtained in our workplace, the awards we got for excellence? Do our heavy pockets gowith us? Do our memories follow us to the grave? Do our loved ones stay beside our grave for long?

All we bury with us is an insatiable heart with the disappointment of not having done the thousands things it had dreamt of. With us goes our brain, our mind, and all the places we had stored our judgments about people around us, the society, the world and the universe and the little we knew about it, the mind where we divided who we interacted with, who we shared ourselves with, where we split our lives into segments where we thought comfort dwelt. Mind, the place where limitless and directionless thoughts emanated from unknown places, thoughts which we had to control,thoughts which had to control us, thoughts we liked to constantly recall, thoughts we tried to bury deeply but which surfaced as thesands shifted below.

Inside our death the tongue lies still, redeeming itself of the countless times it wasted itself, when it moved about to stir unnecessary trouble in the surroundings, when it swiftly moved without second thought to the signals from the heart, when its movement broke other things inside others.

Our eyes remain open,seeing a pitch dark, a dark which only gets darker, a darkness which blankets the world, where things lose shape and the divisions inside your mind finally cease.

When you are buried, and tears have dried, and morality has faded in the background, its then when people will decide about you. People will remember you for how you made them feel, not what you gave them but how you gave them what you gave them, not empty words but how you filled them with personal meaning, not countless gifts but what you gave from yourself in each gift, not how  much you helped them but how long you remembered them after helping them, not how many relationships you had but whether choice or compulsion determined the ties, not how you led a million people but how you connected with each individual, not the amount you cried at mournful events but the grief that dripped from your being, and not the music we played but the chords we struck inside the listeners.

People will remember you for different things, and unless you leave behind your sign posts you’ll soon be another  name mentioned by a child not understanding how elders can strand a person completely in the past.


One thought on “Insatiability

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