Storyteller - Prelude


“Why did he have to do this?”…I kept asking myself desperate to find an answer. Every passing second brought me close to the sign marked “Dead End”. What do I do once I reach there, had I any clue, I wouldn’t have been panting and choking my puff bags with smoke beyond capacity.

It was one of those days, the coach was at play, he was near me and he sobbed a sad story. He was waiting for a reply and I couldn’t think of one. I was scared of losing the role, the coveted position that made me realize how much I can be loved and cared, I didn’t want to lose it for not having an answer.

“There definitely ought to be a way”, I thought. Then I decided to spin a story. That was day one and boy, did I tell a tale. I conquered and kept conquering the tale till I saw hope in his eyes and till today I have no clue if he believed me. But the tale made no enemies, he returned with a smile assuring me of success. Some still today think that I helped him; not really, to be honest he helped me.

I had no one to think about, so I invited guests, who soon turned to be friends. The spirits lifted the nerves and filled the room with zest. The same old story of brotherhood among classmates formed the base. The sodality among them seemed too random that trying to induce randomness would have been a grave mistake.

Some may oppose the term invitation because in no formal ways was there an invite. But I opened my closeness to their openness, if that makes sense. Some still claim to know me well enough and I do not object. The only thing to add would be is that they know the half that spun stories. I am way too simple to miss but I have a gorgeous mask, a mask that blinds the eye, mutes the voice and deafens the sound (a bit too much)

Enough about me, what eventually happened out of those narrations, I learned to embrace life, be it small nuances or elaborate episodes. Some stories are worth the share while others worth to hide. Some display joy while others sorrow. All were but dark secrets and some had the privilege to know.

They came in groups and left solo. Some stayed longer to share a smoke while others caught the early bus. Yet others really didn’t care. Excuses ran out and lies were caught but the visits never seemed to recede. Even though love and care meant a lot to me, my own world of silence never seemed to lose the spot. Time and again, space had to be carved for a moment with eternity. Selfish I was and barred all communication.

I talked to walls and sometimes they talked back and asked if I was alright. The deafening silence soothed my nerves and hoped back on the last bus to catch a glimpse of the town. They showed concern and left no stone unturned, but my painting lacked the color to wade their emotions. “Will I run away again?” my innocence asked my guilt. All I can faintly remember is that I was deemed guilty of my innocence.

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