Ever talk to yourself in your thoughts? Talk to your dreams maybe, your self? Its strange how some people don’t. They just let them be, so shy. Would you dare to read your thoughts out to someone, or would that make you another drama queen? Another topic of discussion down the hallway when you pass by your friends maybe.
Ever felt the void space in your heart, trying to suck in everything to fill itself? That’s because you don’t let it out. Ever. You are too scared to let anyone watch those streaming hot tears roll down your cheeks almost anywhere.
One moment, its the noise of thoughts rushing from one corner of your head to the other and another moment its just dead silence, struggling to make a sound. Failing each time.
Its all so miscellaneous. So abstract. Its like you just can’t find the right person to absolutely understand what you think without making a huge joke out of it. Without making you cry about yourself for hours.
Ever tried to be your self? Cause what I see here are millions of people hiding themselves under masks of happy fun and frolic people and learning how to live with what they’re not happy about. They just don’t dare to speak about it because it would harm their so called, “you are strong” reputation.
So they hide what hurts so it hurts a bit less.
There is music, but there’s no tone. There is harmony but its not giving you peace.
There is a note, but no motivation to play it.
There is darkness, and you hate it.
Its everything that you have never wanted actually. And there’s too much of it.
You can’t get your thoughts together. You pretend too much, when you see everybody else laughing and singing around and you just fail to understand what is wrong with you.
You don’t know. You weren’t like this, neither can you find the reason as to why you are like this.
But never mind maybe? Because pretentiousness seems to he the absolute solution to everything.
Pills were strewn all over her side table, some fell down on the polished white marble floor. She was lying on her bed, looking at the fan. One hand resting on the bed contained the bottle of the pills, they were yellow in color and they were her anti depressants.
She lay there, her black long hair all over the pillow, her mascara had made black lines on her cheek, they were tear marks.
She was wearing green shorts and a large T-shirt, which covered most of her shorts. She lay there, as good as dead.
The silence screamed at her, the blue walls stared at her, the wind was trying to enter through the blue curtains, they were stopped from doing so. “What compelled her to do this?” wondered everything around, how did this bubbly girl change her angels into demons in a single night? And in a second, she wasn’t blinking anymore, her beautiful dark eyes were so tired that maybe only the sleep of a lifetime could revive them, for a new life.
A few miles away, a phone rang. “Hello?”
“Yes? Who’s this?”
“I’m calling from your friend’s bungalow. We just found she committed suicide and since yours was the last number she dialed, we decided to call you, erm, may I know what is your relation with her?”
“She’s my girlfriend.”
A deep guilt crept inside of him, something that was probably not going to leave him for the rest of his life. As he stood near her grave, filled with people in black whom she knew, grieving, consoling him.
She didn’t have anyone else except him, her family died in a car accident three years ago, all she had was him. And maybe, somewhere in a parallel universe between hundreds and thousands of Oblivions she is still wishing, he loved her and not someone else, and if he ever told her she would’ve happily let him be with the one he truly loved.
What she couldn’t handle was a lie from the person who meant the world to her. It wasn’t her fault after all, he was all she had.
We’re all running,
All of us right from the second we’re born, we’re running in a race. Competing with million, why are we running? Who are we running for?
We don’t know.
Are we the first ones in it? Or maybe the second? Or third maybe?
None.We are running because everyone is.
There are 7 billion people on the earth, 7 billion faces, stories, lives and 7 billion thoughts.
I came across one such story, which has chased me till today. I smile when I remember it, yet a touch of sadness in that ephemeral happiness.
3 years back, I met a girl. Wheatish complexion, dark eyes and her hair tied up in a neat ponytail, all I ever saw her wearing was a frock, which revealed blue marks on her legs. They were scars, evidently. Funny, I don’t know her name, just a pseudonym ‘Rose’.
Speaking of pseudonyms, she used to write. She poured all her heart, soul and emotions into everything she wrote.
She visited the same library I used to visit. I was a regular user of the library and so was she. The library was very old, being a part of the small town we lived in, it was a luxury for the ones who love to read.
She came to the library to leave her soul wrapped in a paper, and I came to the library to open the folds of the wrapped paper and feel the soul beneath. I still remember one of the pieces she wrote, the season of autumn it was.
“…Autumn has begun,
Leaves as brightly coloured as the sun.
Everything is filled with vibrance,
But still as shadowless as silence.
Death cannot be beautiful you say,
What is autumn for you anyway?Just before the death of flowers,
And before they are buried in snow,
There comes a festival season
When nature is all aglow.
As the sun gives shimmer to the gold,
The moonlight adds stardust to everything that’s old. The beauty of this scene is matched by none.
Autumn has begun.
Autumn has begun.”
I still carry that piece of paper in my purse. Maybe the poem isn’t very great, but it still mesmerizes me.
I still wonder whether she minded me reading her soulful poems.
I still wonder where how she confessed everything to the pen and the paper. I still wonder why did she vanish one day.
Yes, she vanished. She was just another face, life, and other story in this planet and I was a mere observer of her story. I didn’t even know her. Only later did I learn that she had only seen the dark colours of life.
I enquired about her from the librarian, because she kept every news of the city safe with her.
What I heard that day, answered all my questions about how she wrote those soulful pieces.
Her mother and father died in a car accident just the day after she was born. She used to live with her aunt, who was an alcoholic. Who came home late at night and rose, as I knew her, was a victim of her torment. She was a lover of solace, yet all she ever saw was anguish.
One fine morning, she was found hanging from the ceiling fan in her room.
That was it. She killed herself, tired of holding the pain for so long, she finally let it all go.
Three days after this incident, a note was found in the book called “To Autumn” by the famous author, John Keats. The note read,
“Autumn has come to an end,
the trees let go of the leaves,
And the leaves let go of their vibrance.
Autumn has come to an end.”
It was the first day of December.
Time is a terrible destroyer of lives. It has been and always will be. For you, for me, for everyone who has lived and for everyone who will live.
“Go on to the stage right now!”
White paint on the face, chained to the shackles of something he can’t get rid of, to the shackles of something he’s bound to do, of life, of everything he’s made of and of everything that has destroyed him in seconds. You can’t tell by a joker’s face that he’s breaking inside, and that’s because he doesn’t have a real face when you see him.
Just another somebody, who’s living to make you laugh your lungs out, while he silently cries behind the mask.
He was pushed to the stage, the crowd applauded, slowly it started fainting, after a while it stopped.
A speck of white paint dripped, and fell on the ground below. His teardrops wore masks of white paint too.
The crowd stared at him, he looked back at his master’s fierce eyes and he began, the great game of illusion and deceiving.
He began falling around, jumping, making fun of himself, showed tricks that amused the entire crowd on the stands.
“An hour of pure entertainment, what a show.” Someone said. The show had ended. The master came to the joker, handed him the five hundred rupees and left. The joker fell down on the ground. Applauds were heard no more, the stands stood as good as dead, the white paint was still on the face, and today was like all other days, all other shows. He did not do the shows for a the 400 people in the stands, but for one lady, someone who had taught him to smile, someone who had laughed on all his jokes and never stopped him from being something, as mere as a joker. His mother.
Few hours before his show, he was not a joker. He was a son, in a hospital beside his dying mother begging god for time, just some more time with the person who brought him to life.
And why is it that time is all we need and yet it is everything we don’t have?
As her mother took her last breath, he wore a mask.
As she left for another life, he left for another show.
Time is a terrible destroyer of lives. Four letters ruined our lives like anything, didn’t it?
One year can change everything about you, about your way of looking at things.
One more day, you prayed to god, to let that one person stay, maybe just for a day more.
Some hours were everything you needed to live the best time of your life.
Some minutes was all you wanted from that one person whose presence does wonders, always has.
Some seconds was all you asked for, to hold someone’s hands and tell them how much you love them.
Strangely, all we’ve ever revolved across are these four letters, so much that we’ve lost because of this, so much we’re going to gain, we have gained. And tick tock it goes on, waits for none.
A terrible, terrible thing.
4 flashing lights.
Tons of makeup
Lots of strangers.
An emotionless face.
I was still standing there. “I said packup dear, you heard me right?”
“Oh sorry, yes I did.” He slid his fingers on my shoulders.
“You look stunning.”
“Th-thanks” I say, stuttering.
He went home tonight. He said, it was his marriage anniversary. I pity his wife, she has been kept in the dark for the past so many years, I know I am not the first one there were a lot others too in the past. About his kids, well It seems to me that he just wishes, that his daughter never runs into a man like him.
I couldn’t help. I-I would’ve been forced to starve and die on the streets if I didn’t.
There’s not really a difference between a model and a prostitute.
Both sell their souls for work.
“Madam? You alright?” The driver said for the third time.
“Yes I’m so sorry“, I said with a smile. I walked out of the car and handed him a thousand rupees.
“B-but madam, I can’t take this.”
“Keep it.” I said, “its your son‘s birthday today, I remember.”
He took it with a smile and wished me good night, and drove the Audi to the parking space. A red Audi, I laughed. “Red, the colour of passion.” I laughed.
I walked to the lift, got off at the 7th floor and went to my penthouse.
I changed into my silk nightsuit. On my coffee table were three magazines, all the three had me on the cover page.
“Vogue.” One of them read.
I sat down with my coffee and looked out of the glass window.
Running back through the memories of the past two years.
Thinking how love can turn into hatred,
how admiration can change into despise and how three years can change a girl, who lived on the roads to the girl on the vogue cover.
From the girl wanted by no one, to the girl wanted by millions.
All that someone wishes for. I have fame.
But would you drench your soul in the black water of sin for all the attractive things in the world?
Yes he touched me. The first time, I couldn’t say anything because he said he would give me food.
I was starving.
Yes he touched me the second time too, somewhere else. did I say something then? No. I just cried.
Because he said he’s getting me a job, I’ll be on magazine covers, he said I’m beautiful.
He kissed me the third time. He said I was his property, jokingly at a party after my first shoot.
I tried to protest, but he said he would throw me into the gutter from where he brought me.
I was scared. I cried again.
He showed me the bed, the fourth time. Said, if I didn’t he would put up nasty news about me. He still does it. Every now and then. Tears don’t even bother now.
I did as directed.
I agree the intensity of disgust went up each time, it was at its peak when I knew he was married, and had a daughter. I had no words.
“Models don’t last long dear, their beauty fades with time.”
He told me.
One ‘No’ would lead me to the harsh life and one ‘Yes’ would lead me to all the pleasures in it.
My mobile rang.
“Boss” it displayed, I receive the call.
“My wife and daughter are asleep, I am coming over.”
“Okay.” I said.
I know I could delete every single night with this beast from my memory, I had to. You know why? For me life was,
4 Flashing lights.
Tons of makeup
Lots of strangers.
And an emotionless face.
a person who has written something or who writes in a particular way.
Yes, I googled the definition, not because I don’t know the meaning but because of the curiosity to know how can one define a writer. You can’t describe a writer can you? Everyone describes a writer in different ways. If you ask me, I’d say a writer is a paranoid.
Yes, all writers are mad. Madness that differs from writer to writer, madness that everyone enjoys, madness that they cherish and madness that they embrace.
Most writers try to write something that would make maximum use of language to achieve an emotional and sensory effect as well as a cognitive one.
Speaking of the others, well they don’t exactly ‘try’, they write because they want to let it all out, they simply feel better to narrate their stories to blank white pages instead of humans.
They tell us stories about their vicissitudes in life, their happiness, their own story. Just to share it, just so they know someone else knows it now too.
Some write happy things, because they have been more exposed to the bright side of life, or maybe they just try to hide their true self in the words.
Some write dark, unhappy things which leave you in a melancholic trance. We often read and ask ,
“How do you write something so dark?” They don’t have an answer for that.
We know that their story is nowhere near ours, and yet we find something or the other which we can relate to in our own story. Sometimes its not in the words that they write, not the ‘story’ but their emotions. They match ours. They match ours perfectly.
And if we consider emotions to be pieces of a puzzle, at some stage of their story our pieces fit perfectly with theirs.
Stories vary, but emotions can’t. They are fixed, they may be present in different parts of everyone’s stories but, they can’t change can they?
Talking about what the writers write, that can’t be understood by someone who is too judgemental. You judge a story, you judge the writer.
You can’t. Its not allowed in the world of stories, all you do is read and feel.
Do we ever think what makes a writer? Its simple, a story. It may be sad it may be happy and if that story disturbs us, or leaves a mark on us, then there can’t be a purer form of art.
If you leave a depressed writer in front of a typewriter, he is just going to bleed words.
It should not sound strange that these kind of writers are prone to sadness, they find comfort in sadness. That is their zone of comfort. It’d look like they are stuck in a room which is just dark, but somewhere a little ray of light sneaks in from the corner that keeps the writer going. That keeps the belief of the readers in the writer, in the story.
Is a writer paranoid for you yet?
For me, yes they all are. Sometimes they make me happy, sometimes leave me disturbed but both times all I can do is feel the words, the sentences and the hidden emotions in the pages.
So, well. A blog yeah? We do it so that you can read our story. What have we done. Or what we think, just so you can relate or maybe not? Uh. Up to you then.
Follow up enjoy. (: