I used to frequent a coffee shop in the market nearby. They served the most fantastic coffee. I met a lot of people at this coffee shop – we would share a table, sometimes our thoughts and often our smokes. I knew most of them by their names but I knew all of them by their stories. One of these nameless faces, I was informed last week, killed himself.
He was 27.
And he was a bloody genius. I shall not speak of his personal life and its troubles, but I would share his work here. What a loss.
The ruined remains of what was once a bustling capital city almost a thousand years ago. As the time flies by, and so do the clouds above, there is an eerie stillness of being caught up in a time wrap here. As if you are somewhere you ought not to be, somewhere outside of time itself, and perhaps, just perhaps, you are not really there.
Our struggle for survival and our ever lasting quest for happiness may perhaps be the most common condition of human beings, and yet it is the most moving part of our existence.
If we could say why exactly we love something or someone, if this kind of inexplicable feelings and the emperor of absurdity could be explained, what then would be the point of it? No, he went back to his coffee and looked outside the window for something his eyes yearned to but never saw, while his mind yearned to but never ceased to see.
You should check out more of his work here – Dripping Vanilla. I really have nothing more to say. His work speaks for itself. Such depth, such insight at such a tender age! What a loss.