Greyed

As every second stealthily passes by, a part of me is trapped within that second that will never be released. That second even bears the risk of not being remembered at all, by anyone, forever. Is it necessary then, to know that every second spent had served a good purpose?

At the end of my days, how many seconds of my moments are being captured? Do I really want someone to remember me, whether I am dead or alive?

There are many ways to be remembered. The pictures taken, the words spoken and written, the lingering scent.

Does it then matter if the person who remembers me dies? Where would all the pictures finally end up in? Would it be trapped in the facebook eternally?

Would my thoughts be safely guarded or buried in this virtual dimension? Would my words here be read and be understood? Would it be interpreted in the same way as I thought it would be?

Are there things that one is willing to share but not told?

Are there things that one is willing to tell but not shared?

If all of the above does not matter, then it makes sense why some man prefers to be alone.

If being alone does not matter, then it makes sense why some man choose not to be a part of this world.

All that I perceive now comes from a world where I live in.

Will I then get to see the world from the perspective of a world without me in it?

In a world without me, will I get a better idea of how things should be if I am placed back in?

Ticking

It wasn't until last night when I was reminded of the impending crisis that could explode in years to come.

I had merely hid the time bomb under my bed so that the muffled ticking sound could not reach me.

Last night, I went under my bed and picked up the time bomb. I stared right into the face of it and yet remained clueless to how I can disarm it.

Looking back the past one year, I seemed to staged a feat that few others can achieve. I have attained my major short term goals in life, and I am brimming with pride. But, when I silently gather my thoughts once again, I hear the muffled ticking of the time bomb in my head and it feels as if I have never left my starting point.

As much as I push myself to craft the ideal life ahead, I am compelled to always look back.

Shall I chuck it back under my bed?