Of Men and Oneirisms

A writer’s life is a difficult one. Recalcitrant and demanding. He knew that. It was nearly six months since he started the arduous task of penning his book. His literary masterpiece. Six months of pure solitude and seclusion, perhaps to the point of self-imposed ostracizing. The chapters toiled for, the struggles relentless.

Every once in a while he needed some fresh air. To clear the lungs. A dingy log cabin does that to your system. The park at the edge of the woods was the perfect remedy. A remedy or a nostrum? Well. In any case, he helped himself to one every couple of weeks.

It was like any other time. The hint of sunlight creeping through the enveloped evening sky as the solar reign made way for the brilliance of night’s darkness. A couple of birds flew against the receding reddish-orange Sun. The water in the lake was as placid as ever. There waited his bench overlooking this magical “triviality” of Nature.

Usually it would be empty. Almost no one made their way to this place. Almost no one knew about this place. This slice of heaven was a well-guarded secret. Usually.

The Greeks had a way of humanizing their Gods. She would have been an ideal subject for a Greek Goddess. The sinuous tresses of her brunette hair overflowing onto her shoulders nonchalantly, yet gracefully. Her matching chestnut eyes speaking volumes with but a flutter of her pralinic eyelids. He stood there, open-mouthed, as he continued staring at this angel dressed in the quintessential black dress, not the glamorous raiment but not a casual garb either.

He closed his mouth just as she noticed his presence. She smiled at him and he reciprocated the gesture although much more sheepishly and awkwardly. There was a seat next to hers begging to be sat on by the likes of his posterior excesses. He began to feel uncomfortable about the physical image his immensely neglected body was projecting. But then he reassured himself that his skills as a writer, nay, an artiste, would far compensate his exterior imperfections. He hoped.

He thought about going up to her and introducing himself. He then imagined himself seating next to her and investing some time in meaningless banter. Like about the weather. The political scenario which was stinking up the city. The impossibly high cost of an onion. Anything.

Then his mind drifted as he envisaged a romantic date where she gets completely bowled over by his incomparable wit and wisdom. A couple of bottles of fortified Spanish wine later, he proposes to her a la the classical traditional time-tested on-one-knee routine and ah, she says yes. He is ecstatic. Rhapsodic. Beyond words.

Soon enough, there are two children, a boy and a girl. The elder boy grows up to become a doctor specializing in neurology and the girl, a dancer, a world-renowned one at that. Before he knew it, he was a grandfather. He would come to be one a couple more times. He is euphoric. Blissful. Beyond words.

Suddenly, he sees her coming down with some illness. One from which she would never recover. And as she breathed her last, her hands clasped in his, she smiles one last time and a lone tear meanders the still flawless skin of her perfect face.

All at once, he realized the dream world he was in. Eyes closed the whole time. He gently opened one eye, frowning his forehead into waves of anxious despair as he did. He breathed a sigh of relief as he realized she was still there. But then he noticed someone next to her. A mannequin-like human figure, complete with the aquiline nose and the chiseled features, holding the woman in his large masculine arms.

The writer smiled and walked away, arms akimbo.

Well of course, that was the writer. If it had been me or say, Ethan Hawke, the dialogue would have been different. Firstly, approach when alone. Very important. No use wasting time in meaningless reveries. So something more like,

Alright, alright. Think of it like this. Um, uh, jump ahead, ten, twenty years, okay, and you're married. Only your marriage doesn't have that same energy that it used to have, you know. You start to blame your husband. You start to think about all those guys you've met in your life, and what might have happened if you'd picked up with one of them, right? Well, I'm one of those guys. That's me, you know. So think of this as time travel, from then, to now, uh, to find out what you're missing out on. See, what this really could be is a gigantic favor to both you and your future husband, to find out that you're not missing out on anything. I'm just as big a loser as he is, totally unmotivated, totally boring, and, uh, you made the right choice, and you're really happy

Yes. Absolutely. Without batting an eyelid. Well, maybe winking once or twice. ;).