A letter to a descendant.

Who are you? Where are you? When are you? 

You could be anyone, a man or a woman or any other colour the ever-expanding rainbow can hold. You could be a few generations away from me or many more than my fingers can count. If time is linear, we’re points separated by an extensive period. In that sense, I’m your ancestor, and you’re my descendant. But if time is circular or spiral, you could precede me, or we could co-exist in different planes. 

Given the umpteen possibilities, what would I write to you? 

Should I position myself on a higher pedestal of having seen and experienced life before you, and thus lecture you on what it is, turning myself into a how-to or how-not-to guide? While still holding onto the hierarchy, shall I otherwise share with you what it means to be alive in my times, serve myself as an archive, like a letter from a loved one moved to distant lands, to be revered and preserved? 

Or maybe like two fellow trekkers, coming from different points and going on separate paths, we could sip the hot chai from the same kettle, with no hellos and no goodbyes, only a silent acknowledgement of our existences in the grandeur of the backdrop. 

You and I are not mountains. We’re not here forever, though mountains may also say they aren’t either, that they deal with their existential angst. If we were to be put on a scale with mountains or oceans, we’d be minuscule. Almost non-existent.

We’re a speck of dust. The most fascinating, beautiful, and filled-with-life speck of dust.

Though I wonder if we’re born with a curse – not to be ourselves, not to know ourselves. We chase the moons and the stars, but we don’t know what’s in our hearts. We decode the most sophisticated communication patterns in the universe, but we’re incomprehensible to one other. We’re now teaching machines to be us, without realizing we’ve been machines for a while now. 

So, whoever, wherever, whenever you were, or you’re, or you’ll be, I wish and hope and pray that as long as your fist-size heart is beating, you get to listen to its tune and dance your way. It’s not the hierarchy or handed down wisdom or genetic transfer that ties up you and me, but that very rhythm of existence. 

Dance.

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