To a Shabbily Dressed Writer...

   One day I will die. But life will be remembered. I know I will be born again,again on the lips of a story teller who narrates my story standing in the middle of a campfire. In his whisperings around that fire, I will be born again.  

   Yes...On a cold night, I will come back to earth as an idea born on the fingertip of that writer who is shabbily dressed and uses a black framed spectacle. He will tell you the flashback trying to unveil the mystery. He may write pages about the life I live. He will talk about my friends and lovers. He will talk about my parents and grandparents. He will talk about the places I live and die. He will happily revisit to those places to collect my left overs...

   My books and diaries will bring him a smile unknowing that some of its pages are torn. While pondering them over and again, he will know that there are lots of questions left unanswered.Romantic enough to write about my first love, he will beautifully narrate about the kiss happened under that twilight. Photographs may fetch him lots of details and he will have series of them to examine my changes happened over years. He will narrate to you, how my skin tone has changed and how the wrinkles have born. Not once but for a number of times, he will look into my eyes to capture the stories hiding inside them. And he will write it down, "the lady had pretty eyes but they were melancholic". 

    Writing down all, he tells to his wife once again that women are the weirdest beings on earth. Yet without a pause he will continue with his inquiries of this lady,curiously asking to himself and others, ‘what a woman really wants’. Lonesome nights with lots of beer bottles and cigarette ashes will pass by. His wife will begin to make a lot of noises. She yells. She screams. She murmurs.Yet the man will not stop thinking about me. He will hunt for more frames but everything ends up with rarer details. Lots of men will pass over the story including sinners and saints, criminals and monks. Each woman character he comes over will weave again a new tale within the tale.

    On a fine evening, walking to the paper mart to buy more sheets of papers and ink-bottles, he will start thinking of its end and learn to know that he is falling in love with the lady of this story. That night he sits under his dim lit light trying to write but shedding his first drop of tear for a lady,unknown and unseen.Began as an epic, he knows it is going to end up as a myth.  When the evidences fail to give him a twist of my tale, he will try to peep in through windows for more. 

   And then, he will arrive here. Yes, this place where I bury my tears and smiles; accumulate my love and hate; and medicate my hurts and wounds. Keenly sitting down with his beer glass before him, he views these posts written by me one by one and attempting to read between my lines. When the eyes inside the black framed spectacle reach to this corner, he nods his head with a smile reading to what I write.  A pain may evolve on his chest but I know he still smiles with a wink because he is born to write. 

   "My dear shabbily dressed writer, your black spectacle is awesome. 
 But can you read my story with that?
Can you write the climax?"