The Curse of Being a Writer
It happened too soon! I never thought my enthusiasm, like a moth, was jesting with fire. My aspirations of being a writer were throttled by macabre stories that have left my heart aching. Only a callous heart could make merry at such painful experiences and treat them as material for some sensational writing. On hearing them, I felt I was punished for venturing into life with a writer's ambition.
But, life was much more cruel to her who related her agony to me, a split fraction of which has taken away the chimerical peace of my heart. I would have happily suffered hundred whips on my back and would have been still be hopeful of the good times. But, not anymore.
Why God did not appear on the scene and save her from that butcher! She was pricked, tortured and dragged through the mud. All this because she loved that inhuman wretch. The wretch used her, abused her, cajoled her and again abused her. And, love made light of it all and would have happily offered itself again for the worst contempt had the morbid figure only stayed in her life. He left no stone unturned to pay her for every bit of that selfless love. Having inflicted pain in all ways he could think of, he left. Probably, he lost out to her suffering.
Now the pain of unrequited love seethes in her heart and the horror blinks in those eyes. Company frightens her; she feels secure in the distances that people so eagerly desire to bridge. She doesn't even let the heat of those embers reach others for fear that trauma would visit her again, this time, in the garb of sympathy.
Her sorrow is impregnable. Words can describe hunger, thirst, poverty but not the grief of a wounded heart. They cannot describe the murder of love, nor describe how a corpse lays buried in a living body. The writer in me also met his end in her. If anything comes from me by way of writing it will only be a bauble, a worthless piece that cribs for the participation of my heart, which it shall never have. Nothing makes my heart grow fonder and a distaste for life has smitten my senses. The one strong desire raging in my heart is to slit that bastard's throat open and watch him writhing in pain. That is the only way to peace.
(404 words)
But, life was much more cruel to her who related her agony to me, a split fraction of which has taken away the chimerical peace of my heart. I would have happily suffered hundred whips on my back and would have been still be hopeful of the good times. But, not anymore.
Why God did not appear on the scene and save her from that butcher! She was pricked, tortured and dragged through the mud. All this because she loved that inhuman wretch. The wretch used her, abused her, cajoled her and again abused her. And, love made light of it all and would have happily offered itself again for the worst contempt had the morbid figure only stayed in her life. He left no stone unturned to pay her for every bit of that selfless love. Having inflicted pain in all ways he could think of, he left. Probably, he lost out to her suffering.
Now the pain of unrequited love seethes in her heart and the horror blinks in those eyes. Company frightens her; she feels secure in the distances that people so eagerly desire to bridge. She doesn't even let the heat of those embers reach others for fear that trauma would visit her again, this time, in the garb of sympathy.
Her sorrow is impregnable. Words can describe hunger, thirst, poverty but not the grief of a wounded heart. They cannot describe the murder of love, nor describe how a corpse lays buried in a living body. The writer in me also met his end in her. If anything comes from me by way of writing it will only be a bauble, a worthless piece that cribs for the participation of my heart, which it shall never have. Nothing makes my heart grow fonder and a distaste for life has smitten my senses. The one strong desire raging in my heart is to slit that bastard's throat open and watch him writhing in pain. That is the only way to peace.
(404 words)
Comments