I finished drafting the last chapter of that book I was reading yesterday. Certain amount of emptiness filled my state of being since I started to plot. This one had to be concluded here regardless of the mood it’ll end in. As I writer, I need to care for the continuity. It ends leaving enough room for the birth of a new story.
What I had adopted for my survival held promises to be turned into a life… my life. I was making myself believe I could. I was restraining to run my judgement. It was my choice to read through that moth infested book. I wanted to restore and re-write the passages. I tried in every possible way to edit and include new chapters, yet, the outline stubbornly remained the same like some old gothic text engraved on the walls inside of a pre-historic cave. It was an inscription dug deep. At the start while displacing the characters, my naïve mind gloated on my short lived win; never mind, how dirty I had become in the process. Several edits and revisions later, I realized it wasn’t my story, so no amount of rewriting would work. Characters were sketched already, the drama was pre-decided. I was just another side character to be eliminated carefully after my role was played.
It’s time; I place the book back where I picked it from. I’m not worrying over my readers’ reactions or the demand of fulfilment of the storyline. I like to keep my mirror clean. Corpses belong to the cemetery.
It was as though the book drew me. Like a spell, it created an illusion that it was real! In reality, I was serving my Karma. In the last chapter, I’ve broken that last pattern that uncannily drew my life stances similar to those of my mom. I served my Karma, balancing the ones mom left unfinished. Now on, it will be my story.
I’m not talking about it to anyone. The instances lived once through was the best it got, they don’t deserved to be shared. Evil should be burned down and not spread across. After the book is tossed, I plan to go recluse again. I want to lie wasted like the barren patch after the crops died. It’ll take time for the weeds to dry out and die down. If it wasn’t for mom, I’d failed. I am on the verge of giving up. My smile has left me; I keep a forced one pasted still. I wish I knew how else to draw strength.
The new book seems a distant dream. At this stage, I wish I died. In this way, my attempt of escaping shall truly be successful! Then again, I’m worrying the continuity. Maybe, a bit of blank, some space before life picks up the threads.