Scribbling:
Tragedy of Wanderer:
“It was silent, silent as if there were no one alive, alive as if they
would never die. For it is the fear of death that makes us scream, scream to fill
our heart and mind with noise, noise that corrupts the soul, makes it deaf and
dumb, so they keep on crying and crying and nobody notices, and after all why
should anyone? What’s new in someone’s crying over one thing or other. That has
been our trail while designing civilization. To cry! Cry over making rules, cry
over rule-breaking, cry to have more, cry to have none, cry to love, cry to
hate, and cry to laugh, cry to cry. Cry, cry, and cry. Oh such madness!
He wanted to stop and concentrate, for suddenly he was not even able
to hear his heartbeat or the whisper of his breathes; which used to tell him
stories, in bits and pieces, flying here and there. While wind blew north to
south, they said it carried unheard voices trapped in mountains, mountains who
watched them rise and fall, like dawn and dusk, and yet somewhere time remained
trapped beneath that thick layer of ice, like life in slums beneath glittering sky-scrappers.
But it was all silent this moment. Silent as if dead were waiting to
wake-up. He had learnt how footsteps of ghosts caused no sound. He looked
around, were anyone around? A ghost! Even that thought amazed him, gave him
shiver, but not one that frightens but out of curiosity. He wanted to see a
ghost since childhood. And whenever he thought so he touched his own body, he
wanted to make sure he is not a ghost himself. He wished to look into own eyes,
but alas! How could one look into own eyes, After all how could a ghost see
another ghost, for if it could be so people would have recognized each other
dead long ago. Oh pity!
By: Praveen Parasar
Date: 09/10/2014
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