Thapasya Thankaraj

MY THREE DEATHS  I don't clearly remember The first time I died. It was in April, I think - sunny and warm. My legs hung from the ceiling, trembling like branches, The air was hot, Yet my body shivered As if caught in a winter's eve. Then there was the second time. I died in a spring near the hill. I can still recall the rotten smell. The water was so kind, She scattered tiny flowers across what remained. And the last time, well... It was today. In the corner of my bed, A book cradled in my hands. The story blurred with my blood. It wasn't a violent death, no! Just quiet, like closing a book. Tell me... Have you ever died this way? A little at a time, With the seasons, With the rivers, with the stories left unread?

 WHAT IF? "What if?" What if we are nothing but memories? Not our own, but of someone else? A life already lived, a past already worn. 'Then whose fears do we carry?" I wonder. Whose trembling hands shape our days? Whose grief stains our nights? "We relive their anxieties," he whispered, "Their cries, their weeping, their fearful sighs." Their heartbreaks echo like sad melodies. "And their joy?" I asked, searching his eyes. "Yes, their joy too," he nodded, It blooms in our chests like ancient flowers, "But never their dreams. "Why not?" I breathed, waiting. "Perhaps dreams belong only to the living," he said, "And we... We are only memories."