Tales of an Ambitious Storyteller
He was staring at the glowing bulb.
No! He will not think about her.
Not this time.
An electric bulb cannot remind him of her.
Was he sure?
But no! A thought entered.
Mixed thought of literature and chemistry.
Oh fuck! The filament resemles her.
Yes! it does.
Its Hot! Glowing! And non-melting at such a high temperature.
Tungsten.
No matter how hard he burns himself , she never melts.
That piece of tungsten reminds him of her. He lost again.
It started with chirping of sparrows
And ended with vultures eating flesh.
Why to seek perfection in anything? In objects, people, or anything else.
Perfection is just a word. It is an ideal state and nothing is ideal.
The sonner we learn it, the sooner we will start being happy.
Something exploded without a sound.
No fires, no bombs, no cries were listened.
Just the heat and a smell surrounded the room.
Smell of burnt flesh and some papers.
What made the explosion? What made it so silent?
Someone or something had killed the innocent writer.
Ohh! Look at that blood on floor and that dark burned skin.
Torn, shattered, disfigured. He is there. Lifeless. Lonely. Burnt.
What could be the reason for such a brutal act?
A week later, explosive was found.
It was a phone call.
A report was formed.
“Few words were exchanged by the killer and the victim.
Explosion took place the moment the writer hung up.
The last words were ” I hate you”
Said by the one who died like a sinner..
The one who loved like a child. “
Party ended.
Everyone left.
Punjabi Music and EDM went silent.
Emptiness.
In Bottles, in room, in life.
The only solace was… his headphones.
With them, he could be with anyone and feel anything.
Axl Rose to Ed Sheeran.
James Blunt to Arijit Singh.
Everyone was reciting his story.
Story of his life. Story of his love.
Emptiness won’t be empty now.
“We travelled for more than a year
We passed through plains and valleys
Waterfalls and deserts
We got wounds. We got healed…
And this time too.. We will overc.. ”
“No! Not this time. Do not use your words. “, she said and left.
The problem is, I love Nirvana. I love Guns n Roses, Led Zeppelin, Nickelback, Green Day, BFMV, A7X, coldplay, M5 and a long rocking list including The Local Train.
And you love those Punjabi songs that have nothing except – cars, girls, alcohol, party, or fields, greenery, bullet or even chetak scooters and autotuners.
All I want to do is
Scream.
Scream loud and
Let you know
That you do not
do not deserve
A writer’s love.
Dear Rishikesh, you belong to me and I belong to you. Nobody is there between us. Nobody.
Follow me on Instagram – Pranay
