Most dangerous one of them all
You have placed your writing desk and table next to the window facing the intermittent forest like how the writer living on the mountains does. You dream of him many nights and then wake up to mornings you carefully design imitating his mornings, his chai, his views of the sun, the way he writes poems in corners surrounded by pines as he hides from the world. You do the same. You try for the same. You cannot hide. You cannot write poems.
Sometimes you write few words on scenes you have imagined, rather hallucinated, from your potential past. You count the number of words you wrote today. They don’t seem to have increased from your yesteryears. You say to yourself that you do not have a story. You do not have a story that is desperate enough to leave your vessels. Maybe you will keep it inside and die with it.
Snow keeps falling, but never melts, never stays. So, you remain an undesperate writer, the most dangerous one of them all. Not that it is your fault. It is just that your memory is a mirage. And the blur designed by time, over the years, has robbed you of your story. You will continue writing about other artists, the birches, exotic birds, love letters of poets, stories of the storytellers, but you will never write your story. You are the most dangerous one of them all.
