The dawn of The Apocalypse

THE glories of our blood and state
         Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
         Death lays his icy hand on kings:
         Sceptre and Crown
         Must tumble down,
         And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

 So said, the greatest of men, who never tasted death,nor would they. Ironical as it may sound, the immortals found death fascinating. For them, death was just a play of thoughts, food to brood on for hours in darkness, ammunition enough to make generations weep. Much as these men could make death sound romantic enough, the more unfortunate ones are fortunate enough to know death more closely. Death for us is seasonal. I have died many times in the last few years. It might disguise itself in arcane ways.Yet, not so tough for mortals like me to find my hands shaking, brows breaking in sweat. The death bells have started ringing. In a grad college,death is known by the calender. The dusk of the semester is the dawn of the apocalypse.
The end of the semester is a great leveller. To watch the kids who knew not was darkness was for three months, who conquered the angel called sleep, who so beautifully seduced you everytime you opened the notebook, the ones who knew not what was life was for three months, to watch their face glow in the end of semester is a joy indeed. And then, there were some other people. The ones who knew not how to tell a NO. They never disappointed sleep everytime she courted him, their mind tried to drag their fingers away everytime the fingers went over the words t,w, i, e, r to write “twitter”, the ones who impulse always made them tell “hello” even though, somewhere at the back of mind, they knew the other person has finished his work. Truly, the end of the semester does even it out all. The inner guilt of not competing enough is consuming. For every person who drops in to say, “our project worked only at the last moment!” and watch him heave a sigh of relief, there is a river am forced to swallow down my throat.
This is not the first time I have felt this, and probably not the last time too. Its in these times, we promise ourself, “Come next time!”. I am waiting for the next time from the past 22 years. Elusive, she is! Nothing truly pinches you more than a walk across the wing where you stay. To see rooms bolted, lights switched off and to see people sleeping is a rare sight. Probably, they are sleeping after a hard day’s work. Err, a hard semester’s work. In a few more days, all the lizards will have to leave their habitation. The bags will be dusted. The clothes will adorn the bag which has locked itself for months in the cupboard. The tickets are already booked, i hear. The smiles have already started to break. It wouldnt be long before,they call all their near ones whom they resisted talking to for months about them coming back. Smells of victory there.
 For them, the holidays will mean vacation. For me, its a wait.A wait for the semester to begin. For me, its a wait for another chance to redeem myself. The end of the semester is not death in itself. Its only the ringing of the death bell. Its much worse than death itself. Infact, death can only relive the pain and release you to the next birth. The feeling is terrible, when you can see the writing on the wall, however dark life is. You know in this dusk, it wont be long before the moon washes the earth with milk. Yet, that hope, false hope that I mistaked dusk for the dawn.