Sunday, December 25, 2011
(And I? I died. No need to mourn me. My work was done)
Monday, December 19, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
You are that small, brief smile that most people tend to miss.
You are the cloud that barely grazes over the lake,
never meeting with it completely.
Neither of us will dare to swim to the other side.
This desire is ephemeral.
It will die a quick death.
You will continue to remain, in here, as my unfinished novel.
Till the cows come home.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
She had always enjoyed listening to stories. Anything that was removed from her reality was her fodder to chomp on. Her life, she thought, tasted like the paper of the books she read: vapid. Until one day, she tasted something more than that. It was sweet in her mouth. And soft. And full. Shockingly so. For had she savored some of that real world without being intoxicated and roused, she wouldn’t have been able to completely understand, later, that she was capable of creating her own paradise.
You knew no one would doubt you, being who you are; the perfect son, the loyal husband, always the apple of everyone's eyes. There would be no repercussions on your family and friends since no one would source the murder to you, yet, as you walked on you were filled with an explainable urge to run away and hide. But you knew that if you faltered, they would track you and kill you, you and your family. you had to go on, even if it meant tarnishing your soul and living with the overpowering guilt of killing hundreds of innocent human beings. You can see them now, disguised to make see that you complete what they started. But as you walked towards the bridge, you thought of the only possibility which could save all those people, jumping from the bridge with the bomb, killing yourself immediately. Not that they won't blackmail others into becoming suicide bombers, there would soon be more. You're standing at the bridge with half a minute before detonation deciding what is more important to you, your life and the life of your loved ones or those of a hundred innocents. Would you rather run, leaving the bomb at the bridge or would you jump?
S writes. Better than most people I know. But I hate her. Because she scares me by showing time and again, how she has the power to affect my life in more ways than one.