stories-redux

Posted on | January 27, 2010 | No Comments

Every minute spent with you is another page in a story which will not be written. Because all the stories worth telling are already done, and there are no new tales.

You want to be simple. Normal. And you are more complex than a system of Chinese boxes. There is always something new. Like your admission of craving normalcy.  I want to be complex, and perhaps am just normal.

What does one do when one has made oneself unfit for what one craves? How do you end a story which has grown around you to involve you? How do you write a non-tragic end to a story in which you are yourself a character?

Nights are complex affairs, even in cities where you can barely see a mouthful of sky- stars form intricate patterns with other stars which you can see. And they are interwoven with the gazillion stars you know you cannot see. Are they similar to factors which govern your life? And what if you tell yourself, that you are the only factor which governs your life? That you are no mere star but a blazing sun? And what happens to the lifeless planets around you?

Stories, stories and poems. How do you know which ones are true? And what is the truth from what you would like to believe? How is I Love You different from I Think I Love You? Isn’t the first as great a camouflage of confidence as the second a farce of desire?

What if I pick consequences?

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