I am realising new things about me everyday. I am not a success as I think. I am not great as some say. I am not good as I want others to believe. I am a lost soul in a sea of faces. I have lost faith in myself. I don't know why I am drifting along. I don't know why I am playing my part. I don't know why I am keying this in. I don't know why you should be reading this. If I knew, then I won't be doing this I promise. I will be reading your mind. I will be predicting the future. I will be the one who knows it all.
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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