So I have been giving a lot of thought on writing a short-story these days. When I come to think of it – it looks like a wandering maze where I feel like I’m lost forever but I never give up. Like every other writer in the world, I, too, wish to write my autobiography someday and it should be a bestseller while I’m on some hospital bed in my sixties. A book of my life, so to speak. I’m just waiting for the right time to do so, because the older I get and more I read, better gets my maturity and writing skills. There is no denying in the giant white and empty pages are the biggest enemy of a writer. So I keep writing the book of my life in my mind, every time of the day. On the go, so to speak.
Memory is a funny thing. When you’re in a scene, you don’t really pay no attention to the details or the importance of that moment. The idea of having to remember those details for you will have to write a book on them never linger about. All you think about is yourself. I believe inside of every human being lives a writer. Like in every village there is a crafted farmer who knows the causes and effects of farming and whole village relies on him in time of ploughing. Writing is like playing music on the keyboard. If you are pressing your fingers on the write nodes, the sound and the rhythm soothe your heart and soul. Isn’t that an art? Yes, I think it is. If you can turn a deserted land into some green fruit-bearing paradise then YES you can turn a blank white paper into a book of your life.
So maybe when I turn forty someday, I’ll apply a long leave if I’m working for someone or I’ll just retire for that matter, book a holiday, lightly pack my needful belongings and leave to stay somewhere very quiet. Where the silence hit you like the wind blows on a wide highway. On a lonely island or by the beach I’ll make the fire, watch the fire, keeping the unwritten pages of the book of my life, I’ll remember my days. I have to be careful of what to mention and what not to, as there is no secret that can never leave anyone’s heart. For there is some sorrow in every life. I’ll definitely find it challenging to write a book whose end is still unknown. It’s like writing a story and leaving the ending unwritten. I will jolt my mind to remember the promises that were made and the promises those were broken. Words of anger and fury, love and kindness and the words I was supposed to weep at and laugh at. Suddenly I would remember to add a chapter of secrets. I will be a little scared to reveal everything in that chapter and risk everything that I may possess. But I’m sure somehow I’ll be fearless and go ahead.
Next chapter would be on love and my ink would never dry on that chapter. I will watch the fire again and picture her face and write about it and about how I built the castle out of lies and broken the precious and tender hearts. I’ll write about the chances that I had for once and twice but I was too naïve to understand. I’m sure I’ll cry while doing that chapter. And I will make sure I don’t forget to mention the page where we estranged. Although the pages are numbered in advance but still no one can read till the end, for there is no end to be written in the book of my life.
Then I’d probably move to the chapter on family and friends and some tales of my childhood in it. The quarrels that never could reach to a verdict but the battles that I lost. I will also include some fiction in the book of my life. I would write about the things which I wanted to happen or have but I couldn’t. I will think about adding a chapter on politicians but I would quickly skip that part and move on to the chapter on God. This chapter, I could never have been able to understand. I’ll look in the sky and see stars shimmering and moon if possible. I will praise God in my heart but I won’t be able to write much about it. In the enigma of writing when I’ll get tired and look up, I’ll see the sky turning dark blue again and the sun rising from within the sea. The fire long finished but I would be too busy to realize it. I would be glad that I didn’t set the sea on fire.