Monday, April 29, 2002

Strange boy

There was a boy, not more than ten,
who lived his life without a care,
But it was normal of boys his age,
to be obsessed with the unimportant things,
For the unimportant things were,
The most appealing things in life.

Time passed, and as he grew,
Oh yes how big he’s grown,
People changed, experiences blinked,
And as quickly as it happened,
It passed by at the same time.

Isn’t it strange how songs,
Convey such great meaning,
Even if the song was meaningless?
Just the simple rhythm of the tune,
Evokes floods of memories that would be unstoppable.

Love was a concept,
Love was a story,
Love was an anxiety,
Love was a fear.

Perhaps it was wrong of this boy to think,
That everyone was the same,
But oh how they were similar,
Yet different.

And time passed with each experience.

Each certainty and uncertainty,
Brought about even more memories,
That a large box would seem inadequate,
And stupid at the same time.

Isn’t it strange that life is a concoction,
Of experiences?
And these are the basis of memories?

If so then why are we waiting for,
The person to come along,
And change our lives forever?
Perhaps they have left,
And the memories remain,
No matter how clich├ęd that may seem.
If so, then what then?
Do we wait for another person,
to change our lives again?

How many changes can we go through?
or can we afford to go through, rather?
Until we get old?
Until we tire?
Until death seeks us?

But this little boy is prepared,
He’s got life insurance.