Saturday, September 06, 2008


She sat reading a story with the same name by a Japanese maverick. Yes the one who traps you with his whimsical fantasy tales about a plain clothed Oz and midnight bakeries. So did she make a silent wish on her birthday?

The years have had a sprinkling of confetti soaked in spilled beer and pretty play things, sometimes masquerading as boys. He sneaked up from behind to wrap a gift around her neck, telling the crowd more than they needed to know.

When he finally fell asleep in the light of the dawn, his warm breath on her shoulder and his white body sculpted from what could be golden velvet merging into hers, she sneaked a quick look at the lines of his face. Another wish came true with not the candles but the phosphorus lights going out, another door unlocked, another stolen kiss in the clandestine corners of a suspecting crowd, only to wake up and remember, why make love when you don’t love?

There is always a plot. A plot for every life, common to a few, divided into a few sub-plots and further on. Some excite and entice, seeking attention at the expense of the worthy. Some, deliberately forgotten to make believe never ending interpretations, suiting everyone’s perception. Characters exhibit shades, rather than humanity -- a chaotic blend of lazy curators, stealing the spotlight for they challenge the supposed intellect. And as for the plot of a life, devoid of any sub-plots, characters, climax, heroes, props and morals, what purpose must a pen and paper have, if not to chart a desolate course dictated by its whimsical overlord.
- Anki