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|I got lost today (standard:Inspirational stories, 798 words)|
|Author: femalechauvinist||Added: Jun 20 2007||Views/Reads: 1737/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|what do you do when you get lost and yet you are not?|
I got lost today; I meandered through the fog and the dark alleys, past the cunningly crafted cobwebs that were almost imperceptible, designed to trap a wanderer like me. I got lost today; I fought the demons of my shadows and almost lost my soul as I searched for a way back. I got lost today as I was seated in the bus. Yes, in the bus. It started off as another mundane day; I had completed my daily routine of waking up fifteen minutes after the time I set my alarm, showering, getting dressed and having a rushed breakfast. As usual, I managed to just squeeze my way into the bus just as the flood gates were opened and the hordes of people were released. It was like watching an angry bull charging for the matador and as I took up my favourite window chair near the rear of the bus, I said a silent thanksgiving prayer. I had been spared, though by a whisker, from the flood. Along the way, scenes idly passed before my eyes, barely registering; all was still fine. Finally, with the quickness of lightning and the certitude of the hunter; it pounced on me. Without warning, its cold merciless hands gripped my heart and I was paralysed, at its mercy. Now that I am free of its power, it almost seems ridiculous that it could have scared me so much; it was such an ordinary thing but something about the moment, the place, the person, transfigured it. A simple looking woman, hair braided and held back in a tight ponytail. A young baby held close to the mother's chest in the right hand as the left hand stretched down to hold to the little boy lest he crosses the road without the mother's notice. That was it. It only took a moment of staring and I was lost. “What was her story?” I wondered. “Did her children have a father? Where were they going so early in the morning? Had they had breakfast or was she hoping to make the day's bread by getting casual labour? Why wasn't the young boy in school?” Suddenly, I felt tortured; I desperately wanted to know her story and I found myself about to rise from the seat, jump out of the bus and stop her before she crossed the road. I had to know. Luckily I was saved from a temporal display of madness by a man across the road. He was running; zooming past the people and in a desperate hurry. He had captured my attention. Unfortunately, my rescuer became my tormentor. My mind started running with him wondering what he had for breakfast. Did he have a wife? Was she faithful? What was his story? It was becoming too much but there was no reprieve. From the man to the two women who were jovially chatting. “They must be neighbours,” I thought. “That is why they were walking together so early in the morning.” Next it was the haggard looking man twirling the string of his jacket looking as lost as I was feeling. “Too much information! Too much!” My mind screamed. “Stop! Stop it now!” The heavens had mercy on me. She was a symbol of calmness in her well tailored blue trousers, blue sweater, white shirt and to top it all, the cap. A female traffic officer. Finally, relieve, someone who was in control, who I thought knew what they were about. Oh, how wrong I was, how short lived. The voices, they were back. “She looks so powerful, so indomitable,” they said, “but maybe she is crushed by the departure of her lover for another woman.” “No,” I fought back, “she is too strong, she can't break.” I argued back, fighting to defend her. “How would you know, do you know her story?” They mocked. At that instant, I saw the ground opening, a big black hand reached out for me. I was getting lost, forever. My heart was slowly freezing over. “What was the difference between me and them?” I thought in my despair. “I was just one of the masses, another story!” It was over, I was breaking; but in that very moment like the first ray of sun after a storm, it dawned on me. I was a story, but it didn't matter; all that mattered was what kind of story I wrote. Suddenly, the illusion passed; I was back on my seat in the bus, the traffic was moving, though at a snail's pace; the people were ordinary, just going on with their business. It was yet again another mundane day. I arrived at my stage and headed to my job to do my job, which funnily, is telling other people's stories. I am a journalist. Tweet
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