A Love mystified

The untouched coffee had gone cold and the novel's last page had come to an end. The dusk had settled and the darkness had just started to overshadow the melancholic color of the sky. If only I can write like that, I mused. The hours of sitting in my recliner ached my body and the idea of taking a walk down the alley seemed enticing.

Perhaps they know some kind of sorcery, for how can they hold the reader's attention so long, thought I as I strolled my way past a lamppost. There was an uncanny silence on the road. Not a soul was to be seen. I seemed calm and immersed myself in the silence of the silence.

So what would be my next read. Picking up a new book has always been a tough task for me. How do I trust a new book. How do I trust a new book for the rest of those 10 hours of reading. There is always fear of betrayal. What if the book breaks my trust? It has happened many a times and the pain of abandoning a book before its last page is too torturous to bear.

My reveries came to an end when I saw her. A beauty in blue lying all alone on the curb of the road. A mystic attraction towards her that I felt. My eyes couldn't be taken off from her curves. And she seemed to be in her own world oblivious of her surrounding.

No. I cannot make the same mistake again. That ache in my heart came to its full reality remembering my past for how negligent I was to lose her, my past, my superstition. No I shouldn't make the same mistake again. I reminded my heart that it is not she who would make you a writer, who would give you the inspirations. It is number of books you read, the number of places you visit, the number of people you interact with which would make you a better writer, a sorcerer of words. No! I will just walk past her, ignoring her and my blind belief.

But I fell for her. How could I not? Such a beauty lying unappreciated, reminding me of my past, reminding me of my lost love. I will give her all of my love, make her my religion, worship her as my god. Embracing the, once, lost love again, I picked her up.

And thus in all of my senses I came back to my room undressed her top, caressed her neck, opened a blank page of my tattered notebook, held her curves in my hand and began writing the first few lines...The untouched coffee had gone cold and the novel's last page.....

The end.


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