Sellophane

Anyone can write a story.
So the little boy tried. He wrote and conjured a tale about happiness and magic, tinted with magical shades of love.
And now the little boy has grown up.
As he looks for the story, he realizes that anyone can write a story.
Only now his words reverberate in third-person.

He felt like a new man. A brand new man, squeaky clean. Each part of him fresh and clean with the kind of cleaniness that no amount of polishing can endow in something old. No, he definitely felt new. More alive in a way.

Maybe it was the way the sun was carving it's way through the cloud early in the morning before the oppressive heat gets to you. Maybe it's way the tendrils of steam slither their way up from his cup of morning coffee to greet him. There was just something that he couldn't really put his finger on.

It's all different now. His words no longer scribble and tremble with an unacknowledged sense of hopelessness. Neither do they overflow with the gushing, diabetic, pink happiness that bollywood prophesises and is normally associated with the first person. His words, they seem to have found themselves, just like what he would like to think...He had done.

It had rained the night before. He had watched as he lay on his bed, the water as it mingled with the rays of the incandescent streetlight, forming a glorious shower of diamonds. The morning smelled of rain; As he twirled his finger absent-mindedly and sipped his coffee. He realized that he was alive.

He was alive, bursting with things he wanted to do. Desires that he must fulfill, things to experience, places to explore. He was alive and there was so little time and so much to do.

The phone rang, (breaking the far away soft hue of the radiohead song playing in his room in the other side of the house) he was glad.

Maybe I wasn't supposed to see it.
But it was there; the wound.
Right there, where you couldn't miss it. Strategically placed and covered with grime and pus. I could not miss it. Maybe it should hurt, maybe it does. Nestled in the milky white of a truth you have always carefully avoided.
It should hurt.
But it doesn't really hurt, more like a numb realization that comes with pained acceptance.
But the question is, if you know about it then why do you stay?
It can't be amusement. No, not that.
Why do you entertain me as I delude myself. Weave and whirl illusory patterns around me while I keep sliding downwards on a sloping surface.
What do you see?
Or
What do you wish you did see?
But of course, I must not know.

The blog shall be silent henceforth. Unless otherwise specified. Indefinitely.

Fiction.
I make it all up. One story after another, piled into an instant and then another. She said I could do something. Absolute and the abstract. Dialectics?Duality?
Maybe someday the boy who lives in the floor above me shall read something in a book that I might have absent-mindedly scratched. And being an avid Agatha Christie fan he shall concoct a weird murder story out of it and then obsess over it. Never willing to admit the entire thing to be a mere figment of his imagination?
Maybe someday I shall write the title for something and then write the piece? Maybe I shall look around me when I cross the road. Maybe one day I shall realize that everything I wrote was for someone and I never had the courage to admit it.
But then Maybe's don't really matter.
It's not even a true word, hitch-hiking on two other words. Incomplete and complete at the same time. What a horrible way to live your life. Forcefully clubbing two things like two colors. Each unable to melt into each other, thus obliterating their identity and yet not forming a new one. What a horrible thing to do? Blue and Red, not willing to mix and not willing to separate.
Maybe people important to me will die soon. Maybe they shall cease to be important before they die. Maybe I shall wish for such a thing to happen in order to dull the pain.
So many maybe's...they shall not mean a thing. Because tomorrow is a new day, but unlike celine dion I do not think it shall be such a beautiful day, the sun shall not rise with the promise of a new tomorrow and bathe us in the rays of golden optimism. I shall not believe in something that redundant. No I shall do no such thing.
Tomorrow is but another day, hot...humid...uncomfortable. Unsatisfactory, a struggle though you might chose to not admit it. Every second, each instant. It determines shades of your life. Aargh, we are all the same colour though arent we??