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The end of the world

If the world ended tomorrow, how would I feel? Would I be sad to see the end? Or think it no big deal? If the world ended tomorrow, would I cry? That with all my things in the world, me and my memories must die? I think it would be a catastrophe, of the greatest kind. I'd be miserable and lost and maybe out of my mind There'd be so much I had to say, so much I kept back, That I thought I had the time for, but it was time that I lack. There'd be memories and stories That'd die with me A lot of love and hurt, a lot of you and me. There'd be more than hurt, a lot of affection and love Which I share with beings but I rarely ever show For it's those you love, that you take for granted but its them you always need but they hardly feel wanted I'd want to yell it out From the top of the world That I've led a great life, and have liked and been loved. That I've been lucky to share these times With you and your smiles...
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What do you wish to be?

They asked me a million times, the same thing over and over. "Who do you want to be when you grow up?", they said. Somehow this question has been a constant safe resort for all the distant or close uncles and aunts I (and most of you, I'm sure) have had. They always are interested in our future plans, though often forgetting our answers within the next blink of an eye. Somehow it has collectively become a part and parcel of the Indian (and now worldwide, it seems) psyche, that a person is worthy of notice only if he's working towards some end, passionately. Another thing is, this question that I fully dissected by gauging the motives behind, the tone of and the way of asking, has evolved into something that needs a 'materialistic' answer. I mean, there's this famous saying wherein a kid said "I wanna be happy" when asked this question, and was thought to be simple and innocent by the adults who most probably returned with the same question a few...
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Faraway

Safe in the knowledge, or so it seemed, That things lasted, she happily dreamed, Of the day he'd come back, the day he'd call, Of the day he'd embrace her, and call her his doll, Every birthday of his, she'd make a card, Plaster it on his wall, pristine white paint scarred, Every anniversary of theirs, she'd decorate the house, In the hopes it brought back her long lost spouse. Little did she know, in a village, in a faraway land, Was a prisoner of war, with no right hand, Learning to write with his left, an alphabet a night, For the days brought torture, and his never ending fight, Every birthday of hers, a tree he secretly planted, In the hope that some clean air to her he granted, Every anniversary of theirs, a word more he wrote, In the hope that one day, she'd read all he spoke.
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