A friend once told me that to win the affection of another person you have to tell that person a good story. He is no more alive. A part of him perhaps lives in me through his words. Today I decided to tell her a story. She knew I was fond of her, if only she knew how much, but the idea was to make her fond of me, just a little. I kept on thinking what it would be like to say an honest word or a sentence that would poke her heart with the warmth of a winter afternoon. With her it was never easy. What would be the point of my love if I had told her a sappy story that ended in rose gardens of affection? Many people could do that. Some were doing it already. This made me jealous too. I could feel myself saying- she deserves better than just sugarcoated words, she deserves better than that. But what was I doing anyway?
Nothing much.
To start off with I had decided to tell her this story of a bad man, a lion and a house in the jungle. It was banal and boring. As you can guess- she fell asleep halfway through the first sentence. Most of the time I know, I can’t tell a good story, but when I do she is always in there somewhere- in every words typed out, in every honest sentence. This is why I would tell her this story of a girl who had a lamp whose light turned yellow every evening because the sun would come and rest inside it. It happened one day long ago when this girl was very sad. The sun had arrived at her place to console her, and ever since that day, seeing how nice and lovely she was, the sun had promised to come down to warm her up. The sun was truly in love with this girl and so it found a safe haven under that lamp, so that it could spend time with her and subdue its fire. The girl loved the sun too. Everything was fine until one day the sun got a little too careless in love. The skies lit in fire and it burnt the house where the girl used to stay. The girl died in that fire. As usual, the people blamed love for her death and not the careless Sun.
I would tell her such a story because she prefers a tragic ending-but if I were to tell her that-in her sleep the girl was dreaming of the sun and her life together, and a dream sometimes last an entire lifetime and by the time she would wake up she would have lived and loved, perhaps tasted it all, would that make any difference?
I guess I look for meanings in the saddest places.
Stories end, either happily or sadly, maybe with a tinge of both. Perhaps it all depends on how it’s told, perhaps it depends on that last sentence of the last paragraph. Stories end, but lives go on. And that’s why when I tell her I love her, I don’t limit it to paper, it extends beyond this and I hope she feels that you know, for life is infinitely more beautiful than a fairy tale.
“Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite.
‘Fool’ said my muse to me, ‘look in thy heart and write!’”
She is smiling now, it’s an awful story, she thinks.
Nothing much.
To start off with I had decided to tell her this story of a bad man, a lion and a house in the jungle. It was banal and boring. As you can guess- she fell asleep halfway through the first sentence. Most of the time I know, I can’t tell a good story, but when I do she is always in there somewhere- in every words typed out, in every honest sentence. This is why I would tell her this story of a girl who had a lamp whose light turned yellow every evening because the sun would come and rest inside it. It happened one day long ago when this girl was very sad. The sun had arrived at her place to console her, and ever since that day, seeing how nice and lovely she was, the sun had promised to come down to warm her up. The sun was truly in love with this girl and so it found a safe haven under that lamp, so that it could spend time with her and subdue its fire. The girl loved the sun too. Everything was fine until one day the sun got a little too careless in love. The skies lit in fire and it burnt the house where the girl used to stay. The girl died in that fire. As usual, the people blamed love for her death and not the careless Sun.
I would tell her such a story because she prefers a tragic ending-but if I were to tell her that-in her sleep the girl was dreaming of the sun and her life together, and a dream sometimes last an entire lifetime and by the time she would wake up she would have lived and loved, perhaps tasted it all, would that make any difference?
I guess I look for meanings in the saddest places.
Stories end, either happily or sadly, maybe with a tinge of both. Perhaps it all depends on how it’s told, perhaps it depends on that last sentence of the last paragraph. Stories end, but lives go on. And that’s why when I tell her I love her, I don’t limit it to paper, it extends beyond this and I hope she feels that you know, for life is infinitely more beautiful than a fairy tale.
“Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite.
‘Fool’ said my muse to me, ‘look in thy heart and write!’”
She is smiling now, it’s an awful story, she thinks.
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