Creator Versus Creation
She wrote her first love story on sand, noted with rising
panic that the waves dissolved it into nothingness. As they lashed across the
shore and dragged her words away, kicking, screaming into the depths of… into
the depth of..
Umm.. Excuse me. But I don’t think I like that line. I don’t even like the shore. Or Water in general, Lets.. let’s just stay away from all water bodies okay… I am scared of them..
As she searched, for hours, for the perfect line, the perfect lilting cadence with which to impress my beloved, look, I made a heart for you, she would say to him, The cruel oceans drink, poisoned by no man
Really? That is what you are writing.. The Cruel oceans drink.. poisoned by no man. That does not even make sense. Chetan bhagat could write something better than that.. What are you ..like.. 12?
Her second love poem was written on my wrists, says she. She would look at the empty streets, and she would smile. Empty streets, empty hearts. She would run across the road, pretending she was running away. Walk to edge of the shop and slap change on the counter. They... they're for my father, she would say, when the Chemist would see her prescription. Slowly, without a word, he would hand over the pills and the blades. And she would go home, into his waiting arms, while they carved sonnets of eternal, undying misery to her...
You will not, can not , write me like that. Now we start again. Not a love story. I don;t want to be in a love story anymore.
The bus dropped her off at the park, from where she would have to walk back to her house. It was dark. The way Delhi usually got when ..
No Way you are putting me in DELHI. Eww.. no.. no.. And I know where you are going with that you disgusting freak. No.. Let’s just change this to New York.. Okay
The bus dropped her off at the park, from where she would have to walk back to her house. It was dark, the way New York usually got during the winters. She wrapped her Shawl even tighter around herself, the flimsy cloth offered scant protection against the cold. As she stepped around the corner , a shriek rattled her to her core
Wait.. Why am I taking a bus. Why not a Limo. I have rights too, you know. I will complain to the union. No.. This, this does not work. Let’s just try something else.
She was 5 when she got her superpowers. Some engineering accident.. they said. Suddenly, she found she could walk through walls.
Dude, now, you are just ripping off the X-Men. Give me the pen.. I could write better than you.
Ever since he had been a child, Nikhil’s heart had raced every time he had heard the sound of rustling of pages. That usually meant there was a book nearby. He was fascinated by the way each word would string together, one after the other. He could stare for hours, at the perfectly formed scentence, at the view it provided him from the Author’s mind. Slowly, he became, as his mother had feared, a poet.
-The End
