"I love you, Harry. You make me feel like a person. Like I'm me... and I'm beautiful. " Marion slurred in the film.
She rewound the disc and replayed it.
"I love you, Harry. You make me feel like a person. Like I'm me... and I'm beautiful. "
She flung the remote and walked away from the room and into her study.
"Lies", she wrote, "Films are lies. They make us believe in something that does not exist. They are like little 'how to' programs that try to tell us what life, love, truth, expression, sadness, happiness etc should be. The writer's ideals of these concepts are what we see fashioned on screen and what we, religiously look for in our own little lives. And that is the reason why all our love seems stale, our happiness too less and our sadness overtly dramatic. And this is why I have decided to stop watching films. I have ruined my life enough by aping everything that comes on the screen. And I shall no more. "
And she broke the nib, as if having declared a death sentence!
April 16, 2010
Short Story 6
She tried writing. Over and over again. Her mind was not able to siphon its thoughts and articulate what she was feeling. The prose froze, she stupidly thought.
Untitled 8 was opened and not one thought emerged that had any interesting bent to it. She typed blah as her status message in every possible social forum.
And she closed all the documents without saving them. She shut down her computer. She crawled into her bed.
Sometimes, one should never try to write, she sighed to herself and slept.
Short Story 3
(for all those who are puzzled by these sudden short story series- my fiction project begins next. I'm just freeing my mind and pen by these tales of randomness.
DISCLAIMER: The themes might be influenced by my own life or of people and things around me. But by no means are these stories chunks of my life or anyone else. THIS IS PURE FICTION.)
DISCLAIMER: The themes might be influenced by my own life or of people and things around me. But by no means are these stories chunks of my life or anyone else. THIS IS PURE FICTION.)
The idle familiarity of home calmed his frazzled nerves. Finally...finally he could rid himself of all those clawing agonies that had plagued him through morn and dream.
Home was the best eraser to wipe away pages and pages of things you never wanted to be associated with, but had inevitably got yourself mixed with.
The smells of that single layer of dust that somehow managed to always stick to the sofa cushions acted like a balm. The faint sounds of the radio from the kitchen across the bend of the corridor, sounded like a lullaby. He sank deeper into the sofa and told his mind that nothing could go wrong anymore. He had got his soul back.
Home was the best eraser to wipe away pages and pages of things you never wanted to be associated with, but had inevitably got yourself mixed with.
The smells of that single layer of dust that somehow managed to always stick to the sofa cushions acted like a balm. The faint sounds of the radio from the kitchen across the bend of the corridor, sounded like a lullaby. He sank deeper into the sofa and told his mind that nothing could go wrong anymore. He had got his soul back.
April 15, 2010
Short Story-2
That was so long ago, she mused. Her limbs ached with a kind of tiredness that was not just physical. Yes, age had finally caught up with her, after running a furlong behind in the marathon of life.
She shook the dust of the cloth. It was lying like a rag in the corner of the room. She remembered the exact moment she had cast it off. Tearing it into shreds, fat drops of tears wetting its surface, and a guttaral cry of hatred and the throw to that forgotten corner.
Long ago suddenly seemed like now. The memories had just played their trick on her, all at once intensifying the simmering flame of thought and evoking everything.
She didn't cry this time. She felt the texture of the cloth, and with it, its memories and smiled. It didn't really matter anymore. But she felt tired, very tired for having to go through the motions of the past once again.
She threw the cloth back into the forgotten corner and decided she needed a nap.
She shook the dust of the cloth. It was lying like a rag in the corner of the room. She remembered the exact moment she had cast it off. Tearing it into shreds, fat drops of tears wetting its surface, and a guttaral cry of hatred and the throw to that forgotten corner.
Long ago suddenly seemed like now. The memories had just played their trick on her, all at once intensifying the simmering flame of thought and evoking everything.
She didn't cry this time. She felt the texture of the cloth, and with it, its memories and smiled. It didn't really matter anymore. But she felt tired, very tired for having to go through the motions of the past once again.
She threw the cloth back into the forgotten corner and decided she needed a nap.
April 14, 2010
Short story 1
A raw fear gripped her. The dream had been too vivid, too beautiful. She had lost herself in that dream- letting all the beauty ensnare her and in all abandon, she had let go of her hold on herself.
And she had woken up. Crudely. From those images of pristine perfection. To the stark drab graying walls of her leaking room. To those flaky patches of concrete still struggling to hold on to the wall with invisible ivy hands. To that wooden skirting that was paling and crumbling in parts and annoying her by their presence and absence.
She had known somewhere, when the dream began, that it was a dream. But why then did she allow herself to sink in its embracing waters?! She had lived through the carousing ways of happiness and mortgaged sanity for it.
And now- she was left with nothing but fear. Fear of the craving gnawing crushing emptiness that she once called her heart. It was not there and she wanted it.
And she had woken up. Crudely. From those images of pristine perfection. To the stark drab graying walls of her leaking room. To those flaky patches of concrete still struggling to hold on to the wall with invisible ivy hands. To that wooden skirting that was paling and crumbling in parts and annoying her by their presence and absence.
She had known somewhere, when the dream began, that it was a dream. But why then did she allow herself to sink in its embracing waters?! She had lived through the carousing ways of happiness and mortgaged sanity for it.
And now- she was left with nothing but fear. Fear of the craving gnawing crushing emptiness that she once called her heart. It was not there and she wanted it.
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