A story was stuck in his mind. It refused to let go. He tried everything to coax it. He stared at the white sheets of paper till his eyes refused to see. He keyed in every known word in the dictionary. He played all the songs twice from his iPod. He took a walk in the park. He danced in the rain. He rode off in to the sunset on his rickety scooter. He slept with another woman. He pretended to be mad. He read every book in the library. But his story stayed put, until his grandson stumbled upon his diary. But then, it was no longer his story in spite of his grandson telling everyone so.
I have to write. Those were the words that escaped the dying man's lips. He was found lying unconscious near a mountain of blank paper. His autopsy revealed over exhaustion as the reason. But what did he want to write so badly that it killed him, no one knows. The task was designated to the junior cop who was part of the investigation team. Let's call him Namura. So here we are with Namura in a room with the mountain of blank paper. He is awed as to why should there be so many papers near a dying man. He picks a sheet on the top. He studies it. It's as blank as blank papers can be. No pencil or pen has violated its virgin whiteness. Namura thinks of the white bed sheets back home. He is tired. All he wants is to crash on his bed. He feels angry about the whole situation. Here I am, staring at a blank piece of paper, wondering why someone who wanted to write so badly didn't write a single word, while the whole world is sleeping on their comfy beds. He wanted to tear the ...
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