I have a bad habit of drawing a fable out of anything. Be it a minor incident, or some higher spiritual shot, I would try to make a didactic lesson, and would never write a line if it doesn’t spread a message. How sick I am, thinking all the time about others, and their lessons, or have become writing, and then reading, my own stuffs, learning and unlearning and again learning from them … I am tougher to my life now. I don’t take things as they come, I ignore them, simply as if they never came to me, simply indifferent, or I deny them – apathetic. And slowly life has become tougher to me as well, and now, ceased to happen altogether.
No more are we running parallels; we are separate, independent of each other, alone, content. Devoid of own life – engrossed, rather lost, in my made-up stories, thought-up fables – breathe, I peep into the other’s lives, draw oxygen from their lungs, sucking blood from their veins, living vicariously, like a fabled beast: the ugly beast who prayed upon beauty of the beauty.
So what do you do in such a situation? Yes, when you don’t have a life, and yet, you are living, what you do?
“I make fables. I write them. Live them,” I replied, simply.