Everything is normal under the sun. World would better end
with fire he thought. It was four days since the weather took a windfall. Sun
took refuge behind the dark clouds, winds cleared the roads and sent people
packing stuff off like bunnies. Looking out from his desk, drizzle blurred his
lens; worry seized his forehead; and tears clouded his eyes. He closed the
window shut, and turned towards his empty room. A wire cot lay by the side of the
table. There was also a dresser, a beautiful wooden craved mantle held a blackened
mirror. He couldn’t bare the site of it, he slowly walked out of the room. In
the adjacent little crammed room were, two wooden chairs, battered to suit the old walls
of the house. There was a television set which he barely watched. He slowly
looked into the kitchen, dragged himself there. It was just the same way things
were four days before; it smelt stale food. He didn’t bother to clean them,
yet. Strong winds made the doors and windows come shut all at once. The light from the lamp was crackling to keep itself strong against the winds. Glasses shielded her.
He looked at the light, hoping that he would find some glass
to shield himself. He knew things were never going to get back to normal, in
fact they were past normal, they were past craziness, they were not happening, they forze, according to him. He then wanted to come to terms with reality; he put his hands
into his pocket, found a crumpled piece of paper. He refused to believe it
existed. He slowly opened it. The words were blotched. The scribbles read
‘Dad. You were kind enough to take me back in. The world however isn’t.
I QUIT
Love, Brinda’
Love, Brinda’
From no where, they took her virginity; later the trains took
her breath; fire finally gulped the lust that ended everything. She was mere
ash at his hands. Coldness he felt within froze him into living death for
eternity.
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| Source: Photojournalism Now |