|crtsy : virtualwriter.ca|
Ghost-writer; none other than that role I play. Who is going to believe that the story is not mine! I just read, write, and plagiarize from the book that was already written by the immortal, invisible hands. Everyday is an anecdote; I read it and rephrase then rewrite. All the blames, all the sins, all that is engraved to happen is not just happening but well planned and well executed by the energy that keeps me moving. The flow of tears, moments of anguish, irritation of angry are all were the stones in the path I stroll. I walk naked with bare foot, the words that are thrown at me were enthroned in the stones before it was aimed at me; it hurts but could stop me not even for an inch. The blames and the curses laid on my path were the thorns well set for me to walk on; it tears my palms and when I fall down it stings my arms. All this could make me weak but could stop me not from my walk.
I hold the hands of love when I was about to fall down and sometimes I fall down because of the hands that suppose to hold me is already trodden. Saying all this I thought I was enlightened but the bitter truth is different; I was entangled. That is perfect; this entanglement is perfect as it teaches me flexibility which I eschewed for a life time.
In the name of love it is all fair for no war is better than that of the fight for love. Recite it thousand times the word love will be love, just a four letter word to write but to prove that I just not write but I breathe it is a task for a century. I become good when bent down before the dogmas of fugacious community. And when the rules are broken all the thousand act of humility becomes insanity. I’m named a sinner.
To force me to live with the society is like feeding a goat with cow’s meat. To teach me to swim is an act of insanity when I was made to fly; water for me is just to drink not to get drenched. I don't have the count of breathes I had had and I have no idea on how much more air will get into my lungs and how long could I breathe out that went in. All that I know is I am just a Ghost-writer. You could pluck my pen, break my hand, blind my eyes, may be kill my brain, and burn the paper in which I wrote but you will not find the manuscript; I am just a Ghost-writer.
The words are not mine; this story has no line, reading this will not make you fine. Nothing have I created new, the days I am going to erode this planet are few, as a proof of my living I don't want to leave any residue. I might make no one happy, I live my life crappy but I will die not when I am living.
When I am gone another writer will be born. He might write many times better than me, he might rephrase the sentence thousand times faster than me but he will again be a ghost-writer. No life is new; no words are new everything has to be written then rewritten. Until he know that he is just plagiarizing from the book written in the language of divine he could never write a story better than mine.