The story book.
I opened a book once.
I was gripped from the first sentence.
I loved my shiny new book and I showed it to everyone.
The words wove together like fairy threads, everyone said the story was beautiful.
Everyday I'd read a little more of my book and I loved the story a little more everyday.
Some days I couldn't read my book, but the story would go on. I'd miss it, I didn't like the linear way the story moved on the days I couldn't read it. Before I knew it the story book had woven itself into my life. As if I was writing the chapters now.
Then came a day that I realised I'd misinterpreted my book horribly.
I wish I'd never opened it.
No, to be honest, I was happy I'd read it.
But I wish I'd never read the chapter I was reading then.
I tried flipping back, and it was all there.
But the pages were stained yellow and the characters seemed horribly alien.
I wondered what I was caught up in.
It was strange.
Sickening.
Crazy.
------
She wished she could hate him unadulteratedly.
But there were always memories.
That first talk on the porch.
The weird conversations in languages alien to everyone else.
The comforts.
The laughs.
The sobs.
The weddings.
The funerals.
The drunken nights.
The sober nights.
The regular nights.
Insanely long phone conversations.
The thoughts.
The unspoken.
He felt.
She didn't.
Friends.
Men.
Women.
Fights.
A dark day.
She said she'd hate him forever and a day, but there was always so much to remember. So much to laugh about. So much to feel guilty about. So much she wished she'd cried about.
She was almost indignant about the whole thing. Him walking away like that when she needed him, trampling over her life and pretending he was God. She knew he didn't own her and yet she moved around every single day, a guilty wad stuck reprehensibly at the back of her mind.
Everyone says she feels a certain way.
She doesn't.
He knows.
And that's what makes this story longer, more twisted and so painful.
-------
The end is nearing now, I can feel it.
I don't want my story to end.
Fairytale?
Hurtful?
Important.
I wish you'd see that. You, who brought this book into my life. You, who has the power to change the end. You, who chooses to ignore it.
If the readers are wondering why I put this up here, and since when I decided to impart such private details of my life.. I didn't.
I just have a point to prove.
I hope I proved it.
I opened a book once.
I was gripped from the first sentence.
I loved my shiny new book and I showed it to everyone.
The words wove together like fairy threads, everyone said the story was beautiful.
Everyday I'd read a little more of my book and I loved the story a little more everyday.
Some days I couldn't read my book, but the story would go on. I'd miss it, I didn't like the linear way the story moved on the days I couldn't read it. Before I knew it the story book had woven itself into my life. As if I was writing the chapters now.
Then came a day that I realised I'd misinterpreted my book horribly.
I wish I'd never opened it.
No, to be honest, I was happy I'd read it.
But I wish I'd never read the chapter I was reading then.
I tried flipping back, and it was all there.
But the pages were stained yellow and the characters seemed horribly alien.
I wondered what I was caught up in.
It was strange.
Sickening.
Crazy.
------
She wished she could hate him unadulteratedly.
But there were always memories.
That first talk on the porch.
The weird conversations in languages alien to everyone else.
The comforts.
The laughs.
The sobs.
The weddings.
The funerals.
The drunken nights.
The sober nights.
The regular nights.
Insanely long phone conversations.
The thoughts.
The unspoken.
He felt.
She didn't.
Friends.
Men.
Women.
Fights.
A dark day.
She said she'd hate him forever and a day, but there was always so much to remember. So much to laugh about. So much to feel guilty about. So much she wished she'd cried about.
She was almost indignant about the whole thing. Him walking away like that when she needed him, trampling over her life and pretending he was God. She knew he didn't own her and yet she moved around every single day, a guilty wad stuck reprehensibly at the back of her mind.
Everyone says she feels a certain way.
She doesn't.
He knows.
And that's what makes this story longer, more twisted and so painful.
-------
The end is nearing now, I can feel it.
I don't want my story to end.
Fairytale?
Hurtful?
Important.
I wish you'd see that. You, who brought this book into my life. You, who has the power to change the end. You, who chooses to ignore it.
If the readers are wondering why I put this up here, and since when I decided to impart such private details of my life.. I didn't.
I just have a point to prove.
I hope I proved it.
posted by Souljacker at 12:53 PM
7 Comments:
i cried
- sneh
macho men dont cry.
stupid grls don love.
i hate dat guy.
and i hate u 2.
dis is ridiculous.
but vry wel writn.
- arpit.
Truthfully, I can't say I really understood it, or how it relates to you (since I don't know you too well) but it read good. Keep it up!
this is good
jhakaas boss....kya maal hai..i mean bheje ka maal haaan......kip it up!!!!!!!!!
Some of it went right above my head. tu itni intelligAncy hai! srsly tho .. u mite wanna consider takin up writing srsly. ur real good - neharika
reading your first blog entry.
It reminded me of a troubled teenage girl who has a good grip of her vocabulary.
I have to say.
It is pretty engaging .
"The thoughts.
the unspoken.
He felt
She didn't."
well said.
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