It's monsoon season here in South East Asia. For people elsewhere, this is the time to enjoy glorious summer with warm breeze and endless sandy white beaches...inside (to bad eh?). For us here in Indochina, it's perpetual rain and occasional typhoons from Pacific Ocean, but I wouldn't mind though (I meant the rain, not the storms), as I enjoy the loneliness of rainy days and the peace of mind they entails.
That said, being alone for too long during these uncertain times does take toll on my sanity. And how I long for those days of blue sky and white clouds where I could enjoy myself in the green fields or visit a far off island. Here are some photos from those days.
I'm not one to enjoy city life, but when there was no social distancing, I used to, on rare instances, ride on my old Honda Cub and take photos of pretty corners of this shambling city where I live.
All those activities are impossible now, at least until this Covid thing goes away.
So here I am, alone in my room, on this drizzling evening, coming up with a silly poem on how fleeting life is. Enjoy!
On Life
Fifty years from now,
Nothing ever in existence will be of any matter to you.
Nothing.
Your struggles,
Your efforts,
Your accomplishments,
Your failures,
Your shames,
Your prides,
Your loved ones,
Your enemies,
They all of them, in fifty years
With no exception,
Will be reduced to oblivion.
Life has zero inherent meaning.
When you are dead,
You cease to feel naught.
You experience nothing.
The only thing that matters
Is the very fact that you live,
right now.
Make the most of that fact.
Live your life to the fullest.
You are your own person.
You own no one nothing.
You alone have any say in how you live your life,
And what you do with it.
Exercise your rights,
But don't violate others'.
Is the only thing you should keep in mind,
While you still draw breaths.
Little else matters.
Pay no heed to negativity from others.
Learn from mistakes, but don't eat your heart out.
Fifty years from now,
No mistakes means naught.
Enjoy good things,
But take no pride.
It's pointless,
In fifty years.
And fifty years,
Is but a blink of an eye.
