Saturday, September 26, 2009

The Storyteller and I

He is a writer. A gifted, talented storyteller. He lives through his pages, his paragraphs, his words. His rhymes and his songs. Taken right out of the mouths of the people around him, those who love him, are his most beautiful dialogues. But his life is his work only, each book he completes, a new chapter in his life. New characters, new backdrops means new people, new places. He uses them; in return for the love they give him, he gives them a place in his pages. A chance to be a part of him, for a while. An opportunity to feel complete,but only to be stowed away amongst the many other pages filled with his hurried handwriting. Yet they crave to be captured in his poem, to be trapped under a spell of beauty and bittersweet reality.

I, too, am a writer. A work-in-progress. A slow learner, a secret-keeper. A secret that's locked beneath the layers of my body, and soul. A haunting secret that now fades away. That I still burn for the storyteller, with anger. And affection. And I'm hollow but that's okay. Something better is around the corner and I see it. My stories are not abrupt, like his, or painful. But like sequels in an adventure, moving forward but turning back to grab someone's hand. And running, from him. The same characters but a better, newer story. Calm and somewhat stagnant and beautiful and perfect.

Friday, September 18, 2009


Friday, September 4, 2009

Because It Feels Good

I think it's fun to burn paper.

Especially when it has your words on it.

Even better if it's your picture.


I light the match. Inhale the acrid smell of sulfur. Tear out all the pages and run the match along the side.The suffocating smoke enters my nose and I cough. Paper turns orange, then white, slowly gray and finally black. I blow at the ashes and they scatter all over, glide in the air and land in the sink, glue themselves to the tiny droplets of water. I turn the tap. First the gargling sound then the splashes. The embers are washed away, leaving black traces on the white sink. Brown smudges too, from the yellow edges of the paper. These stains will have to be cleaned, the water fails to remove them. Detergent should do the trick. I squeeze the bottle, squirt the yellow stuff and rub with my fingers. The lemony/zesty fragrance is bliss. Bubbles, tiny and beautiful, swirl down and into the drain. I now have nice-smelling hands.