The story of a Life

When he was born, some said he was the product of love and the cynics called him the result of lust. But he knew he was merely the birth of two souls in one. Whatever you might think, or say, or even allow him to believe, he was created, given a form, and allowed to live. Creation has forever been a point of contempt for scientists and spiritualists alike. But he knew where he came from- thankful for his existence; and the mysteries of existence were not his concern, nor something he would ever learn or care for.

Unfortunate events, for no better words and lack of a genuine explanation, forced a new set of parent figures in his life. He wouldn’t really question why, for they nourished him. They provided him a life. Now creation and nourishment are two different things; yet life has no meaning without either. He obeyed their commands; forever he was indebted to their shaping him, his character and his being. He wouldn’t question their eccentricities. He would quell his mistrust and doubts; he reckoned that they were doing the right thing. If he questioned their intent, he would be questioning his self, his being and all that was him.

But time is a slave of no master. As he aged and the fleeting overseer took his guides, his masters, away from him, he was left alone, a destitute. Soon, it would be his time to go. His deteriorating health and a displeasure at losing the capabilities that he once prided, his youth, made him sick, irritable and annoying. It cannot be confirmed whether it was euthanasia or that he had no say in it, finally he was put to sleep. He was relieved from his misery, his life, or what was left of it, an existence that made less sense as each day passed. He was thankful for this too, for life had no meaning without death; he realized that creation and destruction go hand in hand. If the clueless scientists and spiritualists had to see eye to eye, even for a brief moment, it might be over this- the end.

His tombstone read out his name in bold and a eulogy paid as much respect to him as a dog’s life was worth. It didn’t talk about the parents that had given him birth, the society that had shaped his life or the benevolence that had provided him death. It spoke about his qualities, his traits, some probably exaggerated or even fabricated; nonetheless, it was one devoid of references to his creation, nourishment and destruction. It might have been a dog, the protagonist of this story, or any other creature for that matter. When his story will be told and retold, his life would probably be buried under rubble, just as he is now. But a question still lingers- was he who he was, by birth, by existence, or by death?