Why does the self want to annihilate itself?

There is in life a certain lack of fundamentals. The world of shifting images, impressions and ideas does not hold itself together in solid tangible manageable form, my impressions of it have been more ephemeral, like passing beneath the shade of different trees, the variegated leaves cast their shadows in different shapes and hues, but they only last for moments. Like we are compelled to stick to the surface of the planet even when we are irresistibly drawn towards the core we never get there. And why is it so, can we choose otherwise?


I would much rather be the shadow of a tree, 
or a fallen autumn leaf, or the fine white feather 
which after detaching from a bird’s wings
finds its way across fields, to the window  of a weeping kid.
I would rather die for a cause, than negotiate a deal,
better still will hold out against all causes
a cause in itself, and in my inability to comprehend
I will perceive lack of meaning in everything I see,
I will deny my reflection on the surface of water
and yet hold out a hand to get it out of sea
I will step on my own shadow
yet after every corner 
I will turn around to check if it still lingers beside me.
There are so many ways I will never cease to be
(If only I can hold out right now, not give in to the urge
of dissipating myself over finite griefs.)


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