Epilogue to Reminiscence.
Standing at the backstage of my life's final show preparing for my final act, downcast and nervous, in remorseful deep ponderance, as to why there be such turmoil and such strife to spin in the length, this feeble line of life?

What is life? I have often asked myself in desperate endaevour to understand its essence. Is it vapour! that appears for a little time, and then vaishes away! or Is it a strange interlude, or merely the electric display of light, engineered by God the Father! in the dark cosmic extravaganza? Could it a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets, its hour upon the stage and then is heard no more? A tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury signifying nothing. May be, it is a dome of many colored glass, that stains the white radiance of Eternity, which appears like a great ring of pure endless light! Or just the embrace of all powerful death.

Even as I stand contemplating the answers, I hear God! winding His lonely horn, as regardless Time and unworried world are forever in the flight of confusion heading nowhere and everywhere, where love is less kind than the grey twilight and hope less clear that the dew of the fast approaching dawn, when in its wake, I shall, like the flame of faintly glowing candle having served its purpose, sink into oblivion of nothingess and non-remembarance as Dust of Centruries settling upon my existance, making me disappear from the threshold of entity.

Expended and condemed, I take the final bow, before my erudite critics, bowed by the weight of infutile labor, leaning upon my hoe, with emptiness of life's endaevours reflected upon my face, feeling the burden of unfinished tasks upon my back, transformed into a "matter" the prosthetic protogonist of verbal postmortem, as they assemble to cast my life's etymon in a ethological castration, expurgating each performance, segmentising it into fragments of rare specimen, stigmatising them with epithets in an attempt to do themselves justice for their labor being encumbered with my entity.

With frail hope, I wonderingly for the last time gaze backwards on the path I have truged to find the gleanings of a single puroseful endaevour, perhaps visible, in vain, instead I found my futile desires, unfulfilled dreams raising their mocking countenance taunting me, forcing me to look ahead at the bleak unforgiving darkness called destiny? Full of unanswered question, to seek the signs of a beacon, which may beckon me on to pick the right path which I now must chose to follow on this barren cross-roads of my fate.

Questions bequeathed by chaotic thoughts, I see in morass of the complex and turmoiled emotions, my fast dying desires, shattered dreams, appearing like turbulant waves rioting in a stromy sea, struggling for survival colliding with each other in calumnious kaleidoscopic puzzle, of never ending pattern of maze, each more stupifying than the other. Lost within this chaos I find my own entity, still alive and struggling to make its presence felt, albiet sinking into the quagmire of feelings generated by sense of inferiority, imcompleteness, unfulfillment and uninterrupted struggle to achieve something worthwhile.

Prompted by the dying hopes as the fading sun smites me with chilling negation, heralding the nullity of my further existance, leaving me numb and forshaken, segregated in isolation, where I question myself yet again, What have you achieved? What did you bequeath onto your inheritors? "Nothing" echos, the fast dwindling TIME in an unpardoning cold finality, which rolls from soul to soul and grows tumultuous forever and forever.

Further induced, I am made to reframe my question to myself demanding Time to answer them___"Was living in Present Wrong?" Time replied "Man has not lost, he cannot loose his source in the Absolute, because Present possess no duration, and therefore it is the inlet to a timeless Absolute" hearing I came to realise that when I shall stand, in HIS August and sublime audience, He shall not look at the medals, the degrees and diplomas that I have earned but He shall look at the scars left upon my tormented and tortured soul by the rigours of life___. So I climb onto the stage, stand in silence, one with the audience waiting for the judgement to be passed on me by those who are analysing my performance delivering my last dialogue, before I take my final bow___"Let there be no inscription upon my tomb. Let no man write my epitaph. I am here, ready to die....Let my character and motives repose in obscurity and peace, till other times and other men can do them justice."