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.
