As usual I was waiting for my thoughts to return. I had sent them up the elevator at the mall. I could see them inside the claustrophobic glass capsule slowly moving up. I was waiting patiently by the elevator doors when someone in a guard's uniform confronted me. He wanted to know whether I was ogling at the women in the glass elevator. He laughed out loud when I told him about my thoughts. He pushed me out after threatening me with dire consequences. Now, here I am staring at the screen waiting for my thoughts to ring the doorbell.
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