The mountain top was empty. Empty like the old man's bald head. Nothing grew there. Whatever was there died off during last winter. Like his hopes of meeting another soul. Now, everything was going to change. He saw a man inching up towards him. The closer he came, the happier the old man became. He couldn't hold it any longer he moved to the edge of the precipice to cheer the stranger. That's when the ice gave way. He met the stranger half way down. Together they reached the bottom faster than mountain goats. As they lay there submerged in the ice, the old man thought "What a wonderful life it was at the top!"
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 ...
Comments
Post a Comment