They say stories don't come to you, instead you need to chase them all along the universe. But, I beg to differ. They come to you. They come to you running wild, making way through the chaotic woods. They come to you when you need them the most.
He came in last Sunday evening knocking through my cellphone. Good long years had skipped through the hands of clock since we last exchanged words or rather I should say since we last exchanged glances. But, he knocked. He dared to knock hard, and I decided to open the door for him.
Now you might wonder that he would have stepped into my little world of enormous possibilities and made himself comfortable. Well, certainly not. Instead, he urged me to step out of my abode and watch the greens and greys of the world outside. I am glad he did.
Are you looking for a story in here? My story? His story? Our story? But I may disappoint you a little here. You might not get what you are looking for. It's his story. Yes. But it's not what happened to him, who he fell in love with and how he melted into tears. It's a story about him. It's a story about how he became a story.
You are a writer too, as of I assume now. Every other human, tired from his humanly values, has a tendency to come up to you to become a story of your words. So did he. Until I realised he was a story, already. Incomplete, yet touching the roofs of completeness within. He might laugh if he reads this. He might be sad that I never mentioned the love of his life in his story. But, he doesn't need a girl to be scribbled into immortality.
We have been matching our footsteps on the roads of the city for days now. He keeps on ranting his heart out and I try to read him as a book. Before I say any further, I am making a mention of this. He is a book in a language you too have been written in. His language is of emotions; only if you care to read. Believe me or not, I tried reading him and guess what? We are alike. Two books, different covers, different titles, same words.
I have heard him sing melancholy through his smile, that he tries to bounce at my face, every now and then. He seems all joyous and content but his eyes are colossal voids, demanding something.
You would feel tired to read so much about a person, you have no clue about. But, what can I say now! He just doesn't stop speaking. All he wishes for an ear to listen and a heart to understand. And I never deny, for I feel his unshed tears at times. He wants to say something. He wants to cry out. He wants to whisper too...only if you hear.
He wonders around like a hippy through the streets of our city. But he is a guy next door. Fun, witty, energetic, agonious, depressed, a little weird, kind of cute but slightly charming. Like a wanderer of he roams around discovering himself, in the name of finding love. I won't tell you who he was, or how I know him, or how he came to me, or who is he to me. But I hereby tell you, that he is a story. A story you would love to read. A story I would love to recite.
Because, we all are but stories. You are but a story. I AM a story.
