It haunts you for lives once it is successful in its evil pursuit.

It would kill all baby souls that

have sprouted after ages of blood poured out in nourishing those dreams that our breath
aspires. And if one were to sit and pull all those thoughts out, put them aside, claiming them
disowned, then would life shine its lustre with the golden blaze which never left its abode,
awaiting the moments of bravery and grace from above, which then would be brought, flaring
the flag of victory.
But it's sad, it's deathly depressing when one can't, when one cries the tears of defeat, accept
his image distorted in the mirror, his real face. When giving all his heart out for the cause, he
begins destruction, initiates degradation of his own self. It can be noisy wails, sometimes
numbness, with me, ripping out of the word- hope. It gets clear then, the unconquerable
reality, and taking a refuge in arguments of fate, as an only alternative left at hand to count
on. Begins then the real misery.
Then, with all hopes buried, with all voices of invitations from the dreams turning into dead
silence of blackness, the drought of heart craving for water, when stops its cry and lament and
forces itself in silence to kill it, sip in all of the misery, turning hope and desire into voiceless
acceptation of entry into the hell, a place you would enter, of which desire of running back
your heart would never consent to. Then it will be the imprisonment for eternity. Your flesh
would rot, your voice would lose all its words, your body would dry up without a drop of
water, and all of it, then, would come to you as your reality which destiny kept for you.

Turning back would stop occurring to the mind. It's a state when ambition has far left the
soul. Body has since far accepted to be an animal. Thought -you would stop seeing purpose
for it. You would lose sense because senselessness would then seem to be your part of the pie.
Cursing, crying, at a point, even lamenting stops. You become a rotting insect on a speck of
dust. You lose vision because sight would lead no escape.
And that is what the soul is destined for. Then that is what is waiting for all of us if we stop
trying, if we stop dreaming, if we stop, hopping back on stage, even if it is more
embarrassing and ashamed. Trying and failing, sometimes when it is needed winning, one can
sum up life in these words. One can find his purpose. One can understand truths of life, of
destiny, of God.
However yearningly we run after everything utterly perfect, the fact of deformations and
misery never seem to part their ways from our journeys. We, as creatures, are malcontent
species and it's in our blood, having known it, to run after objects aimlessly, purposelessly
and with this illusory hope to achieve the best. All of us are in race to get the best. Our lives
are like battles to get the best. And if one enters into it (normally since one begins to breathe
until they stop), failure and victory are coins rolled to us.
We are told perfection is delusive conception of what is. Yet the life only tells tales about it.
Then becomes our goal, my goal, to gain what is an illusion, a dreamy concept pertaining to
inexistence.

Perfection needs necessarily be that only thing after which we stop longing. Running after
flawed stuff with a hope to attain the best can be a way a man with less vibrant intellectual
capacities may take to. As far as I talk about myself and stories, I want to run for the ultimate
explicitly. Things with transient forces to make us blinded by them then become mere
obstacles. And these things would include everything which we take our lives to be all about,
ranging from my words to my ultimate pursuit of knowledge. Words, as we may see, are
distorted versions of something that is beyond words. And when something beyond words is
addressed, it does not merely mean anything that only silence can utter, rather seems to be
even bigger than and beyond silence itself. Presence of words or absence of them, which is
merely silence, are conceptions which come to be an instrument of that which uses both of
them.
My stories, the tales that come ahead, come with the purpose to pull down on paper
everything which is beyond said and unsaid. Words would come, but those facts which they
would seem to entail would be the last thing that they would mean. Meaning and pursuit after
decryption of the tales told should be handled best under one's capabilities. It is often hardest
for our beings to do the simplest of the deeds. What if one has to stop trying? What if one
were to read without comprehending what is read? What if one were to speak no meaning?
What if one were to seek no meaning in those sounds which would suddenly occur to ears?
What if words and ideas and tales, all the working cinema afront our eyes, were to become
just a flow of mere air? What if words, like meaning or purpose, hard or easy, success or
defeat, delight or despair, would be heard just like some music, which at core summarizes all
the meaning and sense, but when heard would be mere voices, some sounds which would just
be sounds and chasing sense out of these nonsense.

And when that is what the writer expects from its reader on perceiving his word and the
world around, the reader then should too stop expecting stories with any meaning as far.
When the foundation for reading a work is established with mind kept outside away as far as
possible, how can then it be expected of the writer to write something sensible? It may just be
sounds then, maybe one even in that situation take a step ahead and form one's own sounds,
self-curated words, and giving by self, the existent words their new meanings. What then
would be the need of creating characters who would be saintly or evil and remain like they
were? Why then can't be the tales told of our heroes becoming the villains of our tales and our
devils winning over our hearts? Why then can't be a further step dared to establish a world of
nonsensical people and their stories? Why then is it supposed to have a purpose or even an
idea braiding it together? Why can then the tale not be written with invisible ink on white
paper?
My story, as far as I know me by identity, has no premise developed. Maybe it has its
characters who cry and ones who would rejoice, but what my words would go on to say and
tell you about would come straight from my heart. Let me make everyone aware of the
existence of my breath in all these people you would surround yourself with in upcoming
pages. I talk through them, I build them, I speak when they say any word, and I die when they
die. It's perfection I'm after, and these words are all for nothing, they say nothing. Let's
establish a world through them to attain to perfection then. Like all ultimate things, Let's use
words as mere instruments for actually what they are, and try to sum up our lives, burn it to
establish a new world of new meanings. We would then transcend our realities and become
creators, a creator for a perfect cosmos, and through these we pursue a hunt after knowledge,
let's seek love through it, let's live with our soulmates through these.
And with all said, it's made clear that everything which would mark my name on it, which
readers are supposed to read then, is nothing but my story, it's me, all there is. I built it
myself, one who reads it wastes time, one who wants to intrude and take then a glance of me,
my soul, my life, my pursuit, and my world is allowed to proceed.

When I write, I seek for music through each movement. Motion imposes itself on my life and
I am to follow it. When I choose to stay still and dissolve myself into the air, all so soft and
penetrable, I lose conception of me and all that surrounds me. Then through air I see, through
it I listen. Sense and my reckless longing for it subsides and all that then exists is me, living,
existing everywhere through that air. The story is like that air which in truth dissolves me and
makes me everything that it preaches. Each part then becomes me, not a part of me, each part
by whole is me, even then if it may be sounds of a single vowel or ones which with meaning
add themselves to other sounds.
What I seek to discover then through this is the mystery of my heart, my incessant instinct of
what I desire, an ultimate consummation, the desire of the beating bud inside, a glimpse of
what each and all hint at. In short, let's say it is an adventure after something so precious that
is kept away from me, but my poor heart has never left lamenting for it. It's this poor heart's
cries which have led me to come here and begin my story.
Beginning a story is an act most sophisticatedly done in the whole process of forming it and
its presentation. It can be a tedious process for ones who have pre planned notions of their
tales they strive to tell through their words. But if one were to tell a story – a story, which in
essence is nothing but a life created by an alternative God – duplicating his life and his
perception of infinite verities of existence, having a preplanned view for the story and then
trying to imprint on paper which exists in its rigid obscure formations somewhere in the
heart, becomes, then, a stupid undertaking. Of course, for having taken this task and building
a stage for my story, I have to begin introducing one by one my characters.
Let’s begin this story in the ways the stories seem to introduce themselves. Then I would
have to sound something like “once when the girl who was caged by his parents all her life,
got wings and flew away, found herself the next day in a river- bloated, with her body
drunken with air and lips forming a movement, a motion describing an effort to voice her
heart but abruptly stopped in the middle with a throw. One could see the clear gaze in her
eyes; they were sharp and bright and had a constant view of the unending skies, the clouds
leaving their patterns in those black eyeballs. All else of eyes looked blue. Maybe there were
marks of struggle, efforts taken in trying to escape the catch of the final terminating end.”
Sometimes we leave the core when we narrate stories from perspectives, those of abstract
narrators who seem to know all. These dialogues then become absurd and meaningless when
they claim to know it all. They know what happened exactly like it happened and would then
with all of it go on to describe the future of the tale told. When I look around, I see people
seeming to know almost nothing. Even when we talk about instances like of death or misery,
they seem to not even care, but even then, with all their wonder and excitement tell those
instances as if they would mean to them in some way, if not directly burning their hearts but
in a way, a story attached to them in a certain way.
Add multiple paras here.

And thus the word begins.

 ONE

“She lived as a princess. She called her brother her soulmate. She was supposed to win the
world. She was mad about the world. She only cared to own it, not see it or live it. Her
mother gave her a pie. She fed it the fish. Next day her mother cried. The pond had a new fat
fish floating. She was bloated. She had eaten up all the air. Maybe she drank water. Her lips
said something. Her eyes spoke of life.”
“I want to see the sky. I want to hear the stars – those waters, those hills they die to see me.
Let me go out. Please I pray to you, I pray to the lord, let me go in the out. I pray. Let me go
in the out.”
“I have played with her. When we played, she was always giggling. She had that smile when
she was beaten. She even smiled when her mother denied her of school. She heard the word
from her brother. He would tell her all the new words which would start with H like Hills and
R like river. She lived inside. She preferred dreaming when she was awake. She would stay
inside and dream of what she called stars and imagine the color of what she heard were
clouds. When he told her of Hills, she thought of them all rough and brown, all muddy. He
told her they were tall and pierced into the skies. She knew the color of skies too. When asked
she would abruptly say – blue. But when she was told of the sea, she imagined it as the sky on
land. She would often dream of stars too. She thought they were Gods -her brother told her
they were very far. She never slept- she dreamt, she prayed. She was a happy girl”
“One day I was away and I saw a woman sat by the sea. I did not see the face but I could tell
she was something else. She scared me. She behaved insane. She wiggled like a fish caught in
bait. I do not remember seeing her crying then. She was reckless. She wanted to go. She
wanted to disappear. She was sitting by the shore but all her organs danced in some
unintelligible pain she suffered. Her eyes were reckless. Her neck would not stop. Like a bone
ripped of flesh she would turn forward and suddenly with a throw bend back. She was sipping
in her pain. Her eyes all dried up moved across the sea. She wanted to see something. She
wanted to find something”
“She laughed when once her father called her a curse. She loved the sweets. She thought
God made the sweets for making us happy. She thought God made her to be all happy and
then her constant happiness desired her to just sit and Sing. She would then sing for days.
Her brother called her princess when she Sang. She Sang without words; she was more than
all words could ever be. She did not sound like a princess; her voice was neither an ordinary
country girls voice when she sang. One could see the whole world through her sounds. She
was different. She transcended those walls and took to those heavens that laid outside
through her voice. She would flow as if in her own voice and reach those lofty Hills and
damp rivers, travelling to those skies whom she saw all blue and to the depth of the seas she
loved in her dreams. The voice sounded of the world; her voice shouted the cosmic
existence.”
“When I came back, she was still. Then she dropped some tears. She wore some torn clothes.
Her eyes would not leave the waters for a second. She stood near the sea. Then she burst,
though I was scared, I saw it all, how she wailed in pain, how she saw the world around her
eating her. How she couldn’t stand a second more pierced with pain. Then, she took out a
cloth-piece from her bag. She wiped her face and threw it in the sea. It was late, I turned
back. Mother would scream if I reached late – I left. I ran forward, I heard nothing but ran
and then, I know she jumped. She jumped in the river. I did not see – I know it. I was
frightened, my bones started cracking as I ran; she jumped into the sea. I know it, she jumped
into the sea.”
“Why did she never left it all aback and come outside, if I asked her, she would smile and
then again drown in those abstractions of skies and stars - her dreams. She was a little girl,
had just opened her eyes, when her father brought her out and sent her sister away in front of
everyone. Her departure was celebrated by singing those songs praising distant seafarers.
Since then, I believe she had never come out. Her doors were locked with a dangling big lock
- her only enemy in her world. When they would pass some food for her through the only
window, she shined like an angel. She would pray and eat her portions. She was called a doll.
Her father would never take her name – they said ‘doll’ suited her more than her name. When
once, she asked about what she was called, her mother sang her a song instead. She was doll
to us. She was the doll to our people. When her father would allow old women and men to
come to see her, she would sing. Those women would then cry in tears and wish her with
release.”

The world defies all definition we impart to it. sometimes when our hearts are to fill
themselves with some superficial delight of contentment, then it is when we prescribe our
realities their descriptions.
When I walk through air, I see the world breathing through me. When I am to go above the
skies, I take those clouds to be my home. I come a long way when here, I sit to look into
these worlds and listen to its music.
We are dead men. We die when disquiet enters and our mind, our reason, our heart – they all
give up and make way for the conqueror. That is how the stories of death begin. That is how
the girls die. That is when we call it a death with scorching souls, dried up hearts and fainted
nerves.
The lands are often covered with the snow of deep bygone regimes and if one is to start
telling the tales of death and talk of fearing it or understanding it or accepting it then the
minds posing facts or establishing unknowable-ness of the unknown, should take for the time
a step aside – let the reality be confirmed by the dead themselves. Let the dead come to life
again to tell their fables. And hence come ahead the story of my death- one which leads to my
immortality.
In the pursuit of all that which seems out of sight and reach, one begins with everything
which lies about oneself – everything one understands and everything which means some
concept. We begin with all that we own. The flight for knowledge then, begins with being the
known. And hence when I opened my eyes first, when I was pulled into this world, all I knew
was myself. I cried when I saw desire building in. I smiled when it rested. I knew not of the
colors that flew about my sight. I knew not of those voices, those cries and laughs. All I knew
was this being who was pulled out into the world of vibrance from somewhere which felt
dark and delightful. The soul when steps here, for once and always realizes what it feels to
get snatched away of all your comfort. It just cries. It cries. There is no thirst for knowledge
then, no impulse for love. Life sprouts out of desire. Life begins with mere sense of ‘I am’.
Its often horrible to realize all of a sudden, an experience so ambiguous that you would say
for everything – ‘I do not know’. And when this story is stretched further from the birth to
each multiplication of our cells, there is often a delusion of knowledge. We never realize
when we begin taking the world to be known. It is taught then to us that there is something
that’s hard and brown with lots of somethings called leaves on top which is called a tree.
Those trees then become the part of our knowledge. we take to know what we call let’s say
the sky and the star. We are told the mysteries of the world flowing with rigid laws of which
we assume we have cracked the code. The sense of- I am and I do know, when with time
turns into - I am and I know, is a mystery of our existence.
I was pulled and I was asked to call a man my father and a woman my mother. They cared
for me. when I looked at my hand, I realized they had hands too. When I saw my face in the
mirror, I realized I looked like them. they fed me, they played with me, they even looked like
me. Hence, I called them my people. I was taught of lots of words which meant various thing.
And I realized with time of how knowing a word we get to know of that which the word
speaks of. When I heard the word sky and was told about it, I felt as if I knew the sky, as if I
could now own the sky and if not own then at least by knowing just the word I was permitted
to take my sight to it. I could imagine it, feel it in my body its vastness; all this and other
grand possibilities which were merely possible by knowing and saying a word.
All of it keeps getting added to ‘I am’ but ‘I am’ comes to be the only fact of our lives –
nothing more, nothing less than it can we expect of ourselves of our certainty. Even when the
enquiry just unfolds a little by posing questions such as ‘I am but what am I’ have no clear
answers.
When I could not walk and they had to carry me all the way I was required, my vision was
often blurry. I knew the woman who fed me of something that quenched that burning inside
by her smell. Sometimes I could even see her well. They would talk to me; I heard their
sounds. Sometimes there would come to me some melodic voices which I loved and cared for
a smile when my ears hit them. At that phase, your life is obscure- you don’t even know if
you are alive. It’s just some color, some voice and a burning inside which constituted life.
Sometimes you would feel your body, often when it is hurt for some reason, sometime when
somebody just pinched you, you felt sensation of what you come to call as pain when you
grow up. But then, pain is regardless of what you call it, you would feel on your body. unless
there was pain, the body was as if inexistent. Sometimes when elders would take me out in
sunlight, I would lose my sight; I would cry for those colors to come back to life. Colors till
then became a part of my existence and when ripped of it, my sense would not bear the
absence. That is when a soul begins an adventure into attachments, when beyond no pain and
food, one begins to love other things, other parts and pleasures that life had to offer. The seed
of desire begins to ripe and sprouts then the sprig of fondness.