He died thrice on the same road. The first time was when he was an earthworm happily munching away the top soil. He didn't see the road roller coming his way and was plastered on to the road that was being built. He was reborn as a dog a few years down the line. One day as he was sampling a roadkill, he saw a blinding light and a truck ran over him. As he was getting ready for afterlife, he noticed that his dog head was plastered on the same spot where he was plastered as an earthworm in his previous life. Now he was determined not to be on this road in his new life. Soon he was born as a human. He was born in another country. He didn't remember anything about the road. One day the travel bug bit him and he embarked on a trip. He reached a strange land filled with strange people. He loved the countryside. As he was walking on a piece of asphalt that used to be a road, a nearby volcano erupted and a boulder plastered him on to the road. He lay there refusing to be reborn just to be dead again on that road.
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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