He found his famous face staring at him in the mirror. It was a bit too much for his frazzled brain after last night's drinking binge. He stared at the face in the mirror. The face stared back. He was nauseous. The face mocked him. He banged the mirror. The face remained nonchalant. He spat at it and watched the spittle slide down the face. Yet the face stared back at him. He lost it. He punched the face hard. The mirror cracked. His fists got bruised. As he looked up, he saw a hundred faces stare back at him.
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