The duo

A simple thought put in a plain and honest expression is always a great combo. It makes one to surrender for a while and listen to. But as someone quotes it right, "making it simple, is always difficult." Even a finer idea without a simple expression, couldn't have made that impression on anyone. And also, expression without a clear thought would be as useless as a headless horse. But there lies the struggle to fit them like in a jigsaw.

I am always awed by particular writings, which may not hold a great story, but magnetises by the thoughts, that would have just slipped away our minds. Then the style of expression makes me feel like eating a candy. It seems, that meaning cannot be conveyed in any better way. I feel, an article or any equally meaningful word, would distort the expression, if misplaced. Those writings show off the writer's ingenious observation, how they think, and react or at least thought to react and importantly the honest way of writing them down. They might have well understood the pros of being honest while writing.

Though I don't aim to become a writer by profession, I love writing, which makes me to think of the concerned object. Sometimes it is otherwise too. I get a thought and so do I write, not to loose it in the current. The transformation of thought to expression is a sweet pain. It pricks slowly, teases a bit more, tortures like the hell in the moment of cliff, and then looks manageable, puts a smile, and finally brings success with a cheerful sigh. Oh no! it is not always a happy ending. Otherwise, some of my posts wouldn't have remained as just drafts, without ever getting published.

My thought gets hungry of expression.

The Final Door

There was a maze of doors, all of them looking more or less identical and seemed to be concealing the most enthusiastic things and the best opportunities one can ever find. When I entered this maze, everybody was cheerful making merry passing through each door. But I observed almost everybody taking a pause of few jiffies before knocking on each door. When I asked my mother, why it was so, she said, "There is a particular door dreadful, dangerous and there is nothing beyond that door. That one sucks people, whoever knocks on and vanishes them to air". She also instructed me to wait for somebody else to knock on any new door to be safe. May be that was the reason, people roamed around in mobs, where only one was leading them all the way. But I couldn't swallow my mom's precaution. I thought, she was indirectly asking me to be lame, to be handicapped.

From the day, I knew about this door, I felt joy in exploring this maze. Whenever I heard somebody knocked on that door, I didn't feel sad, Instead, it built up respect for them for leading the mob. I took inspiration out of every loss. I loved exploring the new ways. Sometimes, I was lost and took time to get back to hope. All the while, I knew, if I go on with this pace, I might knock on that door very soon. But it didn't scare me. Moreover, I felt, there was something else in that door, which these ordinary people failed to understand. I met few like-minded people, who were willing to accompany me my way. But I deliberately restricted them not to do so. For I couldn't bear the loss of any of them for the relation we share and couldn't cause them pain loosing myself. I felt comfortable in solitude.

One day, I reached the final door, but I didn't notice anything unusual. I seriously felt this one certainly couldn't be that door. I was even thinking of the future, making some plans to meet a very best friend of mine and to give her the sketch I was working on. And I suddenly remembered that I promised another friend to give a call. That particular moment completely erased my thoughts of that door. I knocked on it, rather in hurry to finish it all and to keep the promises I made. A blinding light glared into my eyes and somebody pulled me in with a force that even ten times of me couldn't resist, I was thrown into water, but I saw, the door was still open, I struggled to breath. I tried, but couldn't float, as I didn't know how to swim. I tried one last time to get out of the water. The more I tried to resist the invisible force, the more I was put to pressure. In this duel, I was pushed away. A sharp edge of a rock hit my head in the back. My head started bleeding. Soon, all the water got the color of sanguine. I wondered, if my head contained that much amount of blood. The door was closed before I lost the transparency because of the blood.

I was feeling weak and my body temperature was falling down. I tumbled down with forlorn hope. I closed my eyes, as there was no use for keeping them open. In that last moment, I wanted to remember the best thing that happened to me. It occurred to me that knowing of this final door could be the best one, otherwise I wouldn't have felt happy, every time I knocked on a door and checked my vital signs. Last thing I remember was the the smile I had given for the way I could convince myself for my fallacies. I think, I lied there forever and I still lay there buried under the rocks.

Author's note: I was inflicted with march madness and wrote this story which is neither meaningful nor the one that makes you responsive.

Sources of thought: Monsters Inc. , Mr. Nice Guy, Raj's death and me.