Monday, June 01, 2015

2199 : Page against the machine

Years ago, he had walked upto her and asked her if she was willing to walk the path of life alongside. She had nonchalantly asked him why, wondering aloud how would it matter to anyone at all - if they were not together. She was being flippant and he knew it too.

In response, the next day he had sent a blank sheet of paper in an envelope. She had obviously been perplexed by that and wondered whether it contained hidden ink, or needed to be watered, or heated for the words to reveal themselves. Towards evening, she had hunted him down to ask him the code to the secret. He looked at her directly and said with a blunt honesty, that he carried to this very day, quipping....thats the state of my life....a blank slate....if your presence is missing, its a bloody empty echo.

She had loved that metaphor, and yet they would wait for what felt like 12 long years, before they eventually moved in together. The piece of paper by then had been parched and had begun to stain. The brown smudges were all over all the sheet. What essentially had looked blank was now tarnished with years of disease. Neither of them noticed it, and every single time they tried to write on the paper, yet another disabused blot appeared, this time the blue curmudgeon staining the paper further.

And then there is Today, it is another day...far removed and far long after the moving in event. As he stood with his coffee cleaning his wardrobe, he stumbled upon the creamy sheet of stained paper. Memory was straining and his first instinct was to crumple this moth ridden paper and move on, but something in the figment held him back. He looked at it closely, and random fragments came into focus.

Tried as he did, hard enough, he could not remember the story coherently. He could not place the page....and yet he knew this was intimately Her. As he searched for meaning in that memory, he sat down to have a good sip of the coffee. As he gulped, his body let out a loud involuntary sigh....an usual sign, he recognized  to mean the loss of something personal.

He stared hard at the fragile page,  just like a wild animal would try and comprehend Dante's Inferno. Trying as he did, he could not find any clue on the page.

The page unfortunately did not contain the story of them. What he held in his hand was just a angst ridden, moth infested, smudged pale blue sheet of crumpling paper - albeit one which had once held an imagined story.


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