Where Are My Stories?
If you were to ask of me, "Narrate an interesting story from your childhood", I would probably behave all secretive and try to change the topic. Now you may think that I am doing this because I am hiding something, but the truth is I find it hard to find things from my life that are interesting to others. I could probably tell the story of how the behaviour of teachers changed after I got good marks in mathematics in ninth standard, or the story of how I disappointed my physics teacher in the JEE coaching and you would look at me with the expression of I-asked-for-interesting-bro. And I don't blame you.
For the most part of my life, I have found my joys in things that weren't very common among my peers. While I loved Beyblades and Ben 10 aliens as much as the next kid, the most enjoyable times that I spent would be with my sharpeners and erasers as characters of a hero's journey with a pen as a villain, who would often get a power upgrade when a scale was attached to its cap. Sometimes this journey would unfold over the white plains (my school desks) while sometimes it would manoeuvre around the rocky mountains of Shiverest (folds of the blanket over my bed). I had created a whole universe around it, love stories, betrayal, drama, action; it had everything. Stories that would go on for days, that I would continue from the same place where I had left until I felt the end was befitting for my hero sharpener. So when you ask me for interesting stories, the truth is I did not live as many stories as I had made my characters live through.
And that is how my life has been for as long as I can remember. I have found my joys in the stories of others, looking at them from a corner, watching them unfold while predicting how the characters would react. It's easier that way. To detach yourselves from the responsibilities of decisions, and just watch a story unfold as it's characters create a story which is more than just a sum of its parts.
'But what has it to do with your own stories?'
Well, my story isn't any different from the stories of others. Because when I look behind the journey that has brought me where I am, it never feels like it has been covered on my feet. And thus when you ask me of my stories, it's difficult for me to answer because I haven't lived them. I have observed them from a distance, and heavily judged the decisions of the main character. I have criticized him at his every step, as if it isn't me. Why? Because it's easier that way. I know it is coward, but easier.
'So tell me then, after a few years, when your age will surpass all that you have to look forward to, the dreams that you have, the things that you want, when you've seen them all; how will you survive?'
I will remember myself as the man who was standing at the corner of the room where all the magic happened. I need not be a part of that magic. That's not what magic is about for me. It is something that mesmerises me, something that gives me joy by its mere existence. And when you will ask me for my stories, I will still change the topic, for my stories will be in my head, breathing the air of nostalgia, reminiscing of a time when they were real, when the magic was their existence and I had captured them in my head.
And I am sure you would still believe that I never knew how to enjoy and I didn't know how to live my life. And you will not understand what I mean. But all that I have loved, I have loved alone from a distance; that's how it has always been.
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