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ThePloy

A happy talk ended. There was his pulse beating high and happiness writing a new musical note both disguised by a faint smile on his face. Just when he had the quiet moment for himself, she broke his heart’s opera. I quickly need to attend to some priority work. For him, it was the start of that hour, rare and seemingly gifted, when he picked up his book and resumed reading its 99th page. He could barely recall the plot that unfurled in those 98 pages. He couldn't recall the name of the Doctor who poisoned his patient. The doctor isn't guilty. There is nothing so interesting in this book. It is just a revenge plot that every ordinary author could write. Read it anyway, she said. He looked at his watch. It had been only a few minutes since She left him, to finish drafting a work-email.

He and She began talking again. There is a nagging worry, a condition disquieted by the accumulation of thought. And before they rust my composure, I need to dust it off. I need to feel good. I’m done with the confusion et al, she began. “WTH! She just ruined my reading. And now she wants to discuss something that sounds like sorrow?” was his instant response in the head. It had to come. He hated ephemeral sensations of delight. “Yeah sure. What’s bothering you?” he asked.

…that’s exactly the reason why I am scared – of these frets. If I am happy now, I fear losing it forever. You are a part of this mire too. It is good but sticky… With those words she ended her narration.

For the first time, he said nothing.

He could not ask for more Equilibrium, darned and part of a dysfunctional fact phase of life.


He didn't have to make it to page#100! He just lingered over their agony.

The Line

 And The Fly

I was standing in the line when the little girl from no where crawled and tapped my feet. She, raising her head over a tough, good ninety degrees, looked at me. I might have looked like a monster holding a brown bar in my hand. I dropped it, the chocolate making a splatter design on her cute little frock. She crawled away. I lost my spot and had to restart the hope of reaching that first step to the fly.

I rejoined the growing line; the line now looking longer and bustling with cries of joy, hope and anxiety. Just behind me was a plump old man. Worried? Well, just wait a little longer. Son, this is my first time too. I guess you aren't alone! He gathered the conclusive expressions from my face shooting evident quirks.

The guy in front of me overheard the thoughts talking to me. This isn't my first time but that first step you take to fly has to sport a meaning, an explanation to our wait, a justifying statement to pain incurred through years of wait, he said. He looked young, anxious to experience the journey ahead, again, something that he would eventually do. But he meant a world in that one little sentence. I turned around to ask the old man a question - What made you wait so long? to this replied - It took an infinite amount of clock ticks to wait for this day. I dreamed a great deal but my obsession for 'the fly' gathered constant deceleration thanks to other factors that make up life. I tried tagging this process-on-the-side with my obsession but it was the fight for survival, fight for the buck that kept building hurdles. And here I am, accompanied by my gray hair, matured mind and the memory of the struggle. I tell you, it might well be an experience!

It took a while before the line granted another person a wish. It did take an awful amount of time for it to stamp its approval and grant that excitement. I began to think - What if I could give some of the wishes that meant a little-nothing to the man in front of me to the man behind me? Would the wish work the same way it did to him than it did to the other? The man behind me had the meaning, an explanation and the justification. Yet, he was on a track of hope that trailed. Why is 'the line' there to grant what I wish to have? Why would it make the wait only longer by making us wait, with questions that shoot like arrows of Jade? 

When would all this question-hope concoction dilute the anxiety and concentrate the fading and dying hope and make a perfect solution? As my eye rolled down a tear, the little girl looked up and gave me the candy-pop in her hand. I took it with a renewed sense of hope only to see the line getting longer and then vanishing from the scene. 

The flight of stairs ahead transformed to a painful spiral. The fly flew.