Red, not pink.

‘Pain, at times, leaves you magnificently numb, and sometimes so inspired.’

Would a book mean different things if we read it backwards, beginning at the end? Would a mystery be more interesting if we knew the ‘who’ before the ‘how’ and ‘why’? Does the end define the beginning? If you knew the end would you be able to understand the beginning better? Would things fall into place? Would disintegrating something be easier than building it piece by piece? And soon, would that familiar feeling of knowing what to expect when turn into a wearisome pattern? What do you do then? Abandon it all? Walk away? Leave it as it is? Is not dealing with something really the best way to deal with it?

What must it be like to be able to change something, even if it meant you could only do it in your head, only for yourself? It would be wondrous. To start at the end and go back to the start only to leave it all halfway. That way, you know the end but you can recreate everything else exactly how you want it. You can undo some things; over do others, without worrying about what it will end in, because you already know the end. You can extend the passion; erase the pain, all with a stroke of your wish. They say that life is essentially meaningless; nothing is definite except the fact that we are born and that we will, one day, die. If that is so and if everything we do in between birth and death is only an effort to give meaning to life, why can’t we make life mean whatever we want it to mean? Why do we hide behind our fears and insecurities? Or have our fears and insecurities found a safe refuge in us?