Once upon a time there was a man with no mind of his own. He always wanted others to do the thinking for him. He was always looking for his mind in the wrong places. One day he was caught peeping up a young lady's skirt for it. He didn't know where he could find his mind. He was frustrated that even though he didn't mind being without his mind the others did mind. So off he went to get a mind of his own. He travelled all around the world and came back to his old town. There one day he realized that his mind was all this while languishing in a prison deep underground. He dug and dug until his fingers bled. Finally he reached an iron handle. He turned it with all his might and the earth caved in. Now he was a man who was in no need for a mind. A dead man.
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