A very long time ago, in those years of trying to find your place in the world, you would go alone to Western Classical music concerts and sit in the second row, with strangers - just because you were drawn by the sheer beauty of the words that this music form uses to describe itself.
You could possibly have been the only person sitting there amidst all those well-dressed highly cultured respectable older people, not even knowing the names of the instruments being played, but already in tears looking at the program and reading out the terms in there, silently, like a rosary.
Allegro. Moderato. Sonate. Nocturne. Andante. Libretto. Staccato. Adagio. Arabesque. Cantata. Concertino. Luminoso.
Luminoso. Luminously. You know? Like the way we should live. Can you ever utter that word aloud like a prayer, and be the same again?
You never found your place in the world. You pass through the fringes, the periphery of so many lives. Never crossing that line into the sanctum sanctorum, the place where the God resides. Your offerings, left outside the door, unnoticed.
And so, it is time to leave.
Let the journey at least be through light. Let there be light. Before the dark tunnel. Before the bardo of Fear. You are on your knees. Please.
Luminoso. Luminously. Like the way we should leave.