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|Crippled Soul (standard:fantasy, 1417 words)|
|Author: Muhammad Nasrullah Khan||Added: Nov 05 2001||Views/Reads: 2059/1323||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A woman who meets an image of past|
Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story is sitting in the dark and aloof place of this very old, city railway station; it was his favorite place then, too! I can see him lost in deep thoughts. What is he thinking? Yet, his thinking has not reached to the logical end. Except for me, nobody knows that this silent man's voice can move the statues; his thoughts can melt the frozen brains and his words can purify hearts. Alas! Nobody knows but one who has locked his tongue. A desire to talk to him, at least once, overwhelms me. Something inside me is pushing me towards him; something is quenched in me that wants to burst out but something equally strong is stopping my movement. I am like a person whose feet are chained but stormy air is pushing him forward. What can I do except fall? Yes, I am a fallen woman. Does he still remember me? I do remember once he said: "In this tiresome journey of life, sometimes somebody stops us to make us relaxed. He makes us laugh. We laugh so much that our eyes become wet, then suddenly that person says good bye because he has to go on his own journey, towards his own destined direction. In the beginning we remain lost, missing those heavenly moments, remembering everything about which we laughed. After a few days, we forget the thing, but we remember the laughter and wet eyes; after more days, we forget laughter but those wet eyes remain alive. Then time comes that we forget even those wet eyes. Alas! We die without even taking a bit of those cherished moments. Death cleans everything, while making its own memory. We fall down but life goes on to write more mortal tales with the same excitement. We see the disloyal life moving swiftly in the arms of somebody else, without even looking back to us. Before falling down, we try to make her remember her commitments, but our feeble voice can't even touch our own ears. We die to be forgotten forever. This is the total achievement of life. Our tiring long effort + death = absurdity. An awful nothingness! This is the result of life, for whose sake we go to the maximum extent of meanness; for whose sake we deceive our dear ones; for whose sake we suck the blood of our own species, and then suddenly we are deceived by this. At that moment we try to spit on it, spit which then returns to our own mouths." I want to meet that untamed solitary soul. I want to get rid of this tormenting burden of conscience but at the same time, something invulnerable and unburi able stops me, I know it is my false ego, which will never allow me do so. I know we so-called scholars are slaves of this ego for centuries. We will keep on killing such genius by the fatal poison of our suffocating mediocrity. Yes, I should move now, people are waiting for me; my lofty words are awaited there. Good luck to you, the burden of my soul. The End firstname.lastname@example.org Tweet
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