Less than eleven minutes ...

If I was to write right now like my life depended on it and that each word that oozed out of the orifices off my numb fingers were the last drops of water in an oasis in the desert, what would I write?

Would play that game where you picture yourself at your funeral and you, reincarnated as your best friend or close relative are delivering your own eulogy? What would I say? Hmm… or would I decide to dig deep into my past, not forgetting the resent days of turmoil and write down that autobiography of the journey through this life that finally led me to be at this place at this particular time, writing this exact sentence…karma! Or would I choose an escape, a paradoxical existential life, utopia…

As Marai in Paulo Coehlos’ Eleven minutes so profoundly asks, 

“Keeping passion at bay or surrendering blindly to it-which of these two attitudes is least destructive?”

Life with its twist and turns at times decides to play a crude game of giving you the freedom to do whatever you want, then again leaving in its wake, subtle disclaimers…like this clock, tic toking away, minutes, seconds to my inevitable…