Posts Tagged ‘story’

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I remember being blown away when I read Mark Twain’s most popular book “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer” for the first time. Back then I was in sixth grade. I was impressed, at once. It had such a huge impact in my life that it’s hard to zero in on just one significant area.

I had this queer habit of wearing skins of protagonists that I would become them. I remember collecting petty things like nails, pebbles, marbles, chewing gum wrappers, safety pins and strings, for the sake of trading them during desperate times, just like Tom would. Unfortunately I wasn’t that smart! I couldn’t coax even a mosquito into biting me. Also no one cared for the trivial things in my pocket.

Thomas meant trouble. So would I think in my little head, if someone called me by my full name it would insinuate trouble too. But that would rarely happen. I kept waiting for someone to call me by my full name, but people barely remembered to care. Also, I was probably the only one around smitten by the boy’s life, I think.

Becky Thatcher wasn’t just Tom’s love life. She was mine too. I remember putting a face to my image of Becky. I was new in the school and there was this girl who was the custodian of the class. She wasn’t that pretty, but in my head she was. I imagined Becky to be just like her. She would stand minding her own business, and I would read her expressions closely wondering if Becky would say something like that to Tom, or if Becky was pissed she would make faces like that! Mark Twain was the first writer to have successfully stirred up the absent emotional quotient in my heart. I barely matched anyone’s frequency then. Also it felt like a dud idea to feel for a wall that doesn’t hug you back.

There were some enemy elements to the endearing Tom’s tale which made the story enthralling, but the part with Becky in it appealed to me the most. I would at once subconsciously enter the ecstasy zone, and silently wish them both good. I would remain in that eternal rapture until of course the fun lasted.

When I was done with the book, I reread it just to feel my goosebumps again. I remember reading it a couple of times to relive every bit of it. I remember wishing every inscribed memory undone, so that reading it would be unparalleled fun all over again.

Sometimes I wish if that could be applied to every feeling we encounter for the first time. The first of everything walks in with a titillating head. The thrill, the excitement that it packs in is unmatched, which wanes as it gets reiterated.

Just the thought of “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer” hauls me back in time, and compels me to think about how exhilarating the whole experience was.

I wish to walk in a story like Tom’s adventure. Sometimes I wish to be like words in a story. But then again, aren’t I already?

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It is so weird how I get so much involved in my life, I rarely get time to do what I love doing the most. Writing is hard. But it also is soothing. It brings me back to awesomeness. It makes me embrace reality. It pinpoints me out from the rest and escalates me to a level I wish to stay forever in.

Writing is hard for me. Just like it has been for Moody from Californication. But my words are just thoughts put into a piece of paper. How hard could that be? English isn’t my mother tongue either. Yet I feel like I have a connection with this language. I must have been deep rooted into this shit. Or maybe I was destined to fall in love with it. Maybe in my eyes it’s much appreesh……!

It turns music when you come into the same frequency as of your thoughts. Then you love your words. You marvel your brain for the beautiful music it creates. You sway to it then. You feel the depth of your words. You feel that twist in your guts. It is beautiful. The sheer knowledge that it emanated from you, fills your bosom with pride.

Ever wondered how impeccably an author describes his characters and gradually fills life into them? You are compelled to put them into your imagination. You create them with your thoughts. They become as real as they get in your head. Every writer is an artist, a creator, who breathes life into inanimate objects.

I am such a big fan of writing. It brings out the best in me. Without it I would be just so ordinary. It excels me in my own eyes. I don’t care what people say. I like being my own judge. My creation brings a smile to my face. That should suffice.

Some story I am, from a book unknown.

I am just so involved, I overlook what makes me. Words. I have been carved with words. My soul was written with words, of some great writer with a simple pen yet with a good heart. For that I will be extremely grateful for the rest of my life.

I have been written and described in a book, just like gazillions of people all across the globe have been penned. We are all stories, our features described, our stories narrated. All we are supposed to do is play our parts and be our writer’s story.

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I write pain. Does that mean, I am a sad soul?

Life is a tragedy. I have said it so many times, that tragedy knows me now. If I stop thinking about it, it doesn’t become less justified. The fact remains. The truth stands.

Today, I listened to a story so tragic I wish I didn’t have the power to empathize. I listened to death. Believe me – His voice is shaky, dark, dreadful and unforgiving.

Two people. Mad in love. One is taken. In a poof. One survives. While death, void of emotions, watched her weep.

I see the survivor every day. Her face talks death. I know those smiles are fake. I know that ecstasy is compelled through prolonged weariness. I know the happiness on the face of my survivor has nothing to do with this mundane earth. Yet my survivor is always there, making the world happy, making the world a better place to live in and making amends to this pointless life.

Have you ever witnessed an accident? Have you ever been a part of it? She witnessed an accident so tragic it makes my heart weep. I can’t imagine the horror she had to go through. Walls of the car painted red. Limbs cut. What not.

She watched ‘him’ go. In seconds. Poof! Just like that. He was there with her a minute ago laughing and having fun. She was having the time of her life with her to-be-soulmate. But fate had other plans for her. I have never really liked fate. That dumb old bastard! I have never really liked death as well. He screws life.

I have observed. Her face always wears a smile. She hides her emotions so well! People get duped all the time. But now I know. Now her eyes tell a different story to me. She is scared of this world. She is scared of accidents. She is scared of death. Yet she is brave like a lion. Funny like a clown. Lovely like a rose though living like a zombie. There is tragedy, right there. Sitting silently in the corner, her eyes full of tears.

I don’t know how I would have taken it. I whine at a mere heart-break. She just watched him leave this world. My angst feels so trivial now. She watched him leave her alone, involuntarily. He wished to stay. They were meant to be together. They could have had a great life. This happy-ending leaflet was simply plucked out. At least, I found out what happened to my relationship. She never even got the chance.

Death is a tragedy. So is living, after you have seen death.

I picture the hurt. I empathize for people. I make it mine. I will write for them. If they have words, I know how to put them on a paper. If they wish to be heard, I will listen. If possible I might alleviate them. If not then I will cry with them.

Yes! I am a sad soul. I am an emotional wreck. I feel for the suffering out there. Gazillions of dusky souls with their zillions of problems. I wish to write, if not to them, then for them.

I wish to pen you down. My words always find you, just like my thoughts. I can spend days just thinking, such thoughts of beauty, romance and excellence. They get lost when they don’t find a piece of paper. But you cannot be put on a piece of paper. You are infinite. I cannot confine your wonders.

Sometimes I ponder – Should I be ashamed to write you? Should I wonder who is going to read me? Should I really care about the world? I haven’t really given it a thought. But if I don’t mention you, then my leaflets would dry up, because you are important.

You know that I have fallen for you. Not because I am feeble, but because you are strong. Your essence surprises me. Your eyes draw me. Your voice is like music. Your lips play my favorite songs all the time.

I remember an excerpt from my own oeuvre:

You are the story of my life.

I will pen you with sparkling colors.

You don’t have a name yet. Or may be I don’t like naming you. You are in my dreams already. You are playing with me in that dimension. I can see that. The guy in the mirror is happy and I am happy for him.

But every story is tragic. If there are no stones, I am not walking on the right path. Right? I have got rocks rolling. I am there, yet I am not there. My rivals keep hitting me, and I keep falling to the ground. I simply defend. I don’t take a stand. I don’t have a reason to throw a punch. I don’t know my enemy. I don’t know whom to fight. You haven’t given me a reason to.

I can fight anyone, if you are by my side. But you stand in the center with unsure steps written all over you.

I see the wall, the invisible one. That is the only thing that stops me from you. I can knock it down. But you like it all strong and sturdy. So I keep mum.

Still I will jot you down every now and then. Not because I have to, but because I want to. You make me want to write. You force my thoughts to flow. You put them to words. I am glad that you do, coz writing is something I can’t part with.

I am grateful that you happened because your mere presence gave me thoughts and words. Your existence… your existence simply carves out the better writer in me.