our fragments might just be cloaks of fulfilment.

Perhaps you wonder how much more of you is left, in space and in time. That makes us, you and I, a perfect duo or a collection —depending on how many of us are out there.

Let’s have a retro visit, to when we were nothing but fresh buds of life’s huge tree. We were in the perfect state of little, in the grandest stage of life. So indifferent about being weaned off the cosiness of the womb, we were, nevertheless, a great push. Mother’s commendable effort, a way of saying to us — “My child it’s time I shed you from myself; go also and have a taste of life.” 

It’s commendable indeed: the rigour, the tears, the uncertainty, and the strength rekindled from utter powerlessness. If we had the chance for a request, we would most likely plead — “Just a little more time in here, mother.”

It’s okay to attribute this reluctance to the first cry of a baby, having drawn its first breath. The feeble rigidity, not wanting to be vested yet with the power of living all by itself. The unreadiness expressed by an untameable bawl.

It must be so thoughtless and cowardly of life to throw few jabs also at the artless, right?

It hasn’t been this convincing that babies see those smiles on doctors’ and nurses’ faces while they cry so loudly as cruel — like stale inmates rejoicing on the arrival of a new convict. Or more so, the way Christians describe how joyous the devil would be at the entrance of hell on the approach of the condemned, knowing he won’t go down alone. It’s cruel, selfish, and inhumane.

Even though nobody cares, after all, you are a product of some good pleasure. And just like everyone pleasures for the benefit of their own, you as an outcome isn’t just as enjoyable.

Still, we can haemorrhage all we want about living someone else’s decision, but we’ve just got to face it. Does the picture of ourselves come to us like a flash or just as clear and big? Does it matter a number of us are just as clueless about ourselves?

We are taught to live regardless. To figure out ourselves and to make of ourselves something of relevance. Does anyone see it to be quite more than these — the words?

If you tell someone you are trying so hard to figure yourself out, they either preach to you, faith, say you aren’t doing enough, or some other stuff just as shallow as their words. Yes, it’s our responsibility but more even a hell of a struggle. Many don’t win at this. Those who do and get to know this of themselves early have good luck on their sides. It’s not as simple. It’s a mystery unravelled. I’ve come to believe this for myself lately. Of course, you can pray to God to make for you a good reveal. Maybe some got to realize purpose this way. Does that make those still hunched with this quest faithless or less doers?

Whichever way, we live each day. We do routines. We eat, sleep, read, travel, and enjoy life’s composite. Aren’t all these enough meanings? At least for those yet to unveil themselves. Whatever inherence that holds, though. And if, in the end, they don’t live their purposes, would these little things matter? If not, why?

Should this be some hefty test of hard work, perseverance, or tenacity? You can think of ” hard” in its most coarse form. Ohh, maybe it’s the transcendent “hard”. Frankly, it’s bothersome.

Regardless, we shed ourselves daily. Each time we wake, we are leftovers of the previous us. We wrinkle, and just like leaves, parts of us slough off. Like warriors, we fight in the battles of life. We are remains of the battle, pieces of clattered spear and axes. Doesn’t matter how many of us falter in garnering and proclaiming triumphs in all battles. Our courage, not in brawn but that of faith and hope in the seemingly impossible, should rather be praised. That each day we choose to so dearly live even with strength waning. We do so with the mind of a warrior.

Purpose or purposeless (on whatever criteria that’s measured), we aren’t the same. We are splintered, worn-out versions of ourselves. We paradoxically long for rest in a world of continuous crushing turbulence. But maybe just for today alone is enough warring. Perhaps it’s time living is reprised and appreciated. So also should the little crumbs of ourselves falling off having served their time. They signify purpose. They signify strength.

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