The Painter's Palette

He sat before his canvas

and pondered upon what his next creation

would be.

Confused he was, for he wanted

to paint 'truth' but he did not know

if the truth was true

Days and nights flew by

the sand in Heaven's tall hourglass slipped away

as he sat still before his white board

He doodled with his brush,

raised a quizzical eyebrow,

a smile crept across his face.

He dabbed a little red, and erased it with black

highlighted lines, and shaded vividly

everything he sketched, he blackened

After hours spent, his hands were stained

with vile paint and turpentine

he gazed at the canvas, as though he was possesed

It was the blackest of black

Like truth itself.

Endings

If at all, there is a constant in this universe, other than change.. it would be 'the end'. Endings are everywhere. The end of the universe, the world, life, relationships, school, college.. you name it, it shall end... soon.

All endings have a very strange attribute. Endings bring about sense of overwhelming joy, sadness, annoyance, pity but it never fails to provoke emotions. They leave a void, only to shelved away by time. The more you think about the entire concept of 'the end', the more you'd like to believe in the chances of a new beginning. This is perhaps the fuel for human life. Belief that when things come to a close, there shall be a new avenue that crops up.. somewhere, sometime.

Till then, we clasp our palms around the lantern of hope, keeping the winds of change at bay. It is quite unreal that we have created so much insignificance around us, when we ourselves are equivalent to an absoulte zero in comparison to the vastness of the Universe. And when an entity such as the universe dies.. something endless shall be born. Silence.