Of Magic, December and Me

A cold December evening. The sun walked out pretty fast, just like her.

Then, Walt Whitman walked in, so did the moon and sonnets.

A perfect setting to get lost and never come back. Never. Because once the words you want are served at your table and you find it better than people, you start enjoying your company.

The wind does its job of keeping your sailing thoughts on the loneliest streets of Manhattan, the darkest hours of Quebec or the mind-numbing coldness of Alaska. It drifts you away from human territory. The wind knows what is good for you.

One think-alike human is the overdraft limit that can withstand the winds. It is not like the way it is explained in books or movies, or it is not so metaphorical too. It is awkward, imperfect and unexplainable.

If it is unexplainable, how do writers weave out magic on paper?

Did you read that word aloud?

It is. You still feel some works to be extremely closer to truth, right? I did too. Until, that moment I realised, it takes three lines or a maximum of three pages for a character to do a task impossible for a person reading it in real life. Like, travelling nautical miles with the albatross or running into the terrace of a hostel with curfew and a strict warden. It is easy for them.

Impossibilities cause pain. If this was a page of my book, the book that is picked only by the people who need it.
I would have re-written it this way, but yeah! You read the truth in the beginning. I’m speaking truth in my fictions. I’m a paradox.

“A cold December evening. The sun walked out pretty fast, just like her.

She thought that I could never be a father like the one she has had(She was right!). I asked her to decide. I gave her total freedom. But she was furious and felt I was not helping her and I acted like some sick bastard, three blocks away, who is no one to her.

I caught her while she was at the gate trying to look back at me, she was waiting to see if I would call her back. I hugged her, looked into the eyes that reflected our Rafter and then me. I pushed the lock of hair that hid the bruise on her forehead, kissed it. Then, she decided.

Then, Walt Whitman walked in, so did the moon and sonnets.”

-just barath©

Write side of the heart

image

Episode 5

Hey Barath!

(Ok!) Dear Barath!
Shucks! Man. I think this is not my thing.  I think you asked me to write a letter to you on purpose! But let me try. This is the first thing you ever asked me. So I’m trying to write something that looks like a letter.

You and your literature things are starting to become interesting for me. All because of you. You talk about it and make me feel like, it’s a mandatory part of my survival. You add those fancy words at the right places and make something out of it, that gets me in this trance, while I am already struck by your handsomeness(Someone’s smiling a lot, now).

This being evident as you are reading, when are you going to get me our first book?

Yes! OUR freaking first book!! I am taking so much control over us. I know all that. That’s because, I miss “us” sometimes and this is the only way I can hold someone’s hand and not feel any pain over the juxtaposed, interlocked fingers(God! Me and my Stupid word choices!)

Writers take a walk by Heartbreak lane on a daily-basis. I know you are new to the neighbourhood, so take your time, learn and get over to me as soon as possible.

I think I am starting to love letters. It gives me this 60s English Womenfolk feel. The Flower-Basket Cycles, Hats, Blue and White checked Shirts. I know you would have picturized me in the above scenarios I listed. Don’t you ever start your plan. I will have to use the Kitchen-Knife just like those 60s movies.

Now coming back to what I really wanted to say.
One fact about humans on earth, irrespective of what songs they hear, or what kinda creatures they live with, humans cheat on themselves for the sake of others, there’s this extent for doing that. You never crossed that, even for me.. that was the thing that amazed me first. You do what you want! I do what I want! And we do what we want(Except when it comes to movies! Because you kinda take the decision always).
We are good! better at times?!

So, write back to me, when the freaking butterfly effect you go mad about lets you!

Write slow and steady, because your handwriting shouldn’t have come past the four line notebooks of kindergarten. I am clueless about how it did!

We are already something. I don’t want an approval by words. Words are bitches.

Say ‘Yes’ with a kiss,
Or,
‘Yes’ with two kisses.

Yours,
You know my name!

P.s.- Its time start loving her. So, Duffer’s diary is closed and kept safely inbetween Vairamuthu and Tolstoy in my book rack.

Bye,
just barath a.k.a Duffer©