Unsaid stories and Unheard agonies.

Journey from fiction to reality is not a smooth one. It takes a plethora of courage to confront your real self and the reality itself. I read in psychology that the incongruence between virtual and authentic self creates a difference of perspectives. The different perspectives mirror two different worlds. I have been dwelling in a world of my own making. A beautiful and my own self designed fictional characters. Fiction is when what surrounds us is a part of what we saw in our ideal fantasies. Yesterday, while walking down the road, gazing up in the sky and weaving several stories with those tiny silver things, blabbering and just noting down. Noting down a tale I just wove. Tale of a little pretty girl.

Little pretty girl saw some images in a half sleeping state. The image was of a ragpicker, who had kept his sack aside and dozed off on the stairs of a shop. What amazed the Little pretty girl was the exhaust fan fitted inside the shop, the air of the fan was providing respite from the hot summers to the ragpicker. And He was in deep slumbers. The irony was that of dreams he spun while sleeping and the ones he will have to defy when he opens his eyes. The thoughts of little pretty girl wandered and moving from one thought to another she thought how the two worlds were different. In dreams he might struggle for his desires but the larger picture makes him struggle for necessity. The tale was left incomplete, I was dragged somewhere, I was lost in a world and building a compatibility with those stars, suddenly it all halted. A man was screaming on me for walking down the road amidst the traffic and not concerned about the cost of my life. I wasn't looking at him, though I could see an anguish in his eyes. He kept bickering on me and left after sometime. He was like a speedbreaker on my voyage to orgasmic fun. He broke my little pretty girl's dreams. My curiosity to write what could happen next remained a question.

I walked back home, talking to myself, being considered a fool and condemned for diverting from the 'normal ways' of reacting at situations. All that occupied my mind was my little pretty girl's story. I reached late night and bitter memory of unfinished tale still hovered. I went to take bath and the water rushed out from the tap when my hand rotated it on its own axis. I lay my hand below the tap, and try to create a pond. I dip my finger and a drop sticks to my finger. I endeavor to read it. I connect and make stories with it. A drop which is silent and queer. Why do we call it queer? To a layman, may be it is queer. Nevertheless, in my mind there is no layman. We all are different and queer in our own ways. Drop was about to fall, I protested, I rebelled but it wronged me. It fell and lost its identity. Mixed in the bucket of water it lost itself. How do we find our real selves mixed amongst those several drops? It almost makes me believe that there is no real self, drops are those charachters in a world of bucket. I play with more number of drops, distinguishing, transparent and relative. They keep on creating microscopic ripples. I strive to find them, every loss of identity upset me, however, I don't discontinue. And the process gets disturbed when someone knocks at the door of the bathroom. Another speedjerker on my way to inspirational pleasure. The knock become vexatious. I unlock the door and step outside. It's my roomate, Christie. Christie becomes irksome sometimes. Though she is a brilliant listener. She listens with her whole heart and soul. Infact, she was also perturbed to hear the saga of my fragmentary tale. Nonetheless, she appreciated how I would describe the tales fabricated with water and its droplets. She found them unique and extraordinary. She really enjoys my company and would ask me to make more stories. I never felt tiresome to tell her about the imaginary charachters of my fantasised world. Often I look at the evening sky and read the images it pictured. The little pretty girl of my stories was often left disappointed for there were no neat endings to her tales. It made me gloomy to write how she couldn't abandon the images of past and it all had made a deep impact on her unconscious mind to create something offbeat. She would moan about her lost love, her lost family and sometimes she would grieve that how the sufferings of people around her. Sometimes sufferings would make her comprehend that struggle for necessity is the cruel one. For all the losses, loss of a loved one or any other will all be healed by the ravages of time but suffering is a ceaseless sentiment. It is often believed that our fates are decided by what those lines recite in our hands. However, for the little pretty girl fates are never decided sometimes they are imposed upon. For an instance, fate of a drop to fall in the world of bucket. She would believe fates were decide somewhere up there. I searched for that power while walking down the road and gazing at the sky. A star kept staring me back tonight. I tried neglecting what it was asking me. The star and its entire team felt distraught when I tried unveiling its secrets. I protested on their queries. Their consistent questions made my orgasmic voyage a little scrappy. However, one of the star tried to reach a deal with me. In exchange it wanted me to rescue it from the inner contradictions that were latent in human spirits. This star has resemblance to the little pretty girl of my story. This star seems troubled the way humans said something and did something else. The way they hid their own real selves and dealt with their identities. The star discovered that humans are full of inner contradictions and someway it wanted me to bring this truth to the fore. But how could I do it? How could I promise it anything? I was myself dealing with an abnormal self.

I was a laughing stock for many. There is a dearth of accepting people around us. Everyone around me is guided by their materialist interests. It is not that they don't imagine. They might have better worlds than me. The only difference is that their material self overpowers their imaginary selves. Their imaginary selves never travel beyond the corners of their self interest. Oh well, we all are self interested. Nevertheless, the term 'self' is itself narrowed to materialistic whims and fantasies. Self is beyond the boundaries of what is given to us. We are conditioned to connect to the gadgets than relate ourselves to the little lively elements around us. My orgasmic fun is an exercise towards the expansion of self. The way the star narrated its perceptions to me, the way the drops explored themselves while they sticked to my finger tips. It is all natural. We see ourselves as the victims of love, of lost love, sometimes being subjected to unfair treatment by people and the irony is humans know how to pretend well. But they are reluctant to accept that pretence is a cage. Pretence drags us to identity crisis. And no suffering is bigger than identity conflict. Recently, My mother called me up. She told me she was concerned about what I said and thought. She thought it was weird. While she came to my place, she found me disassociated from the world. And took me to a psychiatrist. Psychiatrist told my mother that I was suffering from somewhat like schizophrenia and an untreated depression. She also told my mother that I had obssession with stars and drops of water. However, she couldn't understand the equation I shared with them. She cannot discern that stars and drops would not leave me. Their was mutual exhange of feelings, which was absent in case of humans. After I mirrored my virtual self, I realised I can't do without it. The tiny silver things, the distinguishing droplets stroke me back to the memories back of chilhood, of my teenage. It would remind me how dependent I was. I have grown up from a naive child to a naive person. I believed in being motivated with someone's support otherwise laziness would take a hold over me. My love life was no different. It has been an illusion in all its aspects. The sessions of psychiatrist brought me closer to the reality of my broken self. I revolted to my mother I don't need a psychiatrist. I am better off with my fantasies. I am better off with the self that I fancied than the one which was set by the world around me. Children often have an imaginary audience to whom they address. My imaginary co-actors knew exactly how I felt. They know how heartbroke I was to lose my best friend. I lost her at that time of my life when I couldn't even distinguish between life and death. All I knew was an unending want to be with someone. Christie was my self created hallucination. Similar to my best friend. The stars showed me all that savored in my childhood, which passed so steadily, and the drops portrayed my loss of identity under peer pressure. Like some unknown I was falling in the bucket of my peers and didn't even fit in. The drops with distinct identity made me cognize that in the toughest times there is always someone who leads us to discover our real selves. The dependence on that someone would rather mess up everything than sorting it all out. This is why I created my own make believe world. A world on my conditions. A world that knows my pains and doesn't trample on my emotions as my near and dear ones in the real world did. The little pretty girl empathised with the dreams of ragpicker, this little pretty girl is so very much like me, she could ascertain the dreams of mere existence were crucial to some people than dreams of being someone great.

I walk down the road, glaring the stars, relating with them and spinning my fables around them. My escape route is someone that will always remain. The escape route assisted me in exhuming those aspects of my self which remained absent in the outside arena. The real world is too real to feel the magic of droplets, the connection with the stars, the details of the universe. And the unreal might be imaginary but it knows my unsaid stories, unheard voices within me, and unheard agonies. Fiction might be stranger than reality, however, it is always closer to you, it is always something that rules your unconscious arena.