Story of a story

You might have thought it’s yours. An ironical closing line or an eye catching opening and a few lines in between, and with these in mind you felt a new romance beseeched to be told*. Your intellect made you believe you knew what you needed to write and that you shall be the perfect raconteur. All that was required now was some ink and it will go the way you want. But when you start writing it, after the first couple of scribbles you realize it has come alive. It has acquired a being of its own. It demands respect, attention and maybe subservience too. It likes to play around and takes over appearances; sometimes a mask, or maybe a fancy robe or a peachy summer dress. It tells you bow down in front of me and maybe I will let you complete myself.

Don’t push. Don’t hide. Don’t twist. Don’t fight. Don’t rebel.

Be very quiet and gentle. Be tender. Be receptive. Be submissive. Be a mute spectator. Treat it as you would treat your newly born. Prostrate if you will.

Listen. Listen carefully. It is talking. Yes, it is talking to you. The story is whispering a story in your ears softly.

If you choose to do so, it will help you to create something you didn’t know you knew. This chronicle I tell you is an ephemeral bubble. It lives; it lives excruciatingly close, yet so far. You try holding it but the bubble has destructed itself already. Or maybe it’s like the fresh dew on the pine tree leaves on a subdued chilly morning. Or not even that. Maybe it’s the pensive dandelion seed that floats in the air. But before you can own it, it has already gone very far.

No story is yours. They lied to you; there is no writer’s block. The tale unfolds when the time is right. You think it’s the web you spin with your words but maybe it’s the narrative that spins a web around you. You never lived a story. The story lived you.

The myth is busted. The ego is shattered. You are just a mere pawn that the legend used because it felt it needed to be told*.