Guy

I have an exam tomorrow. A pass-fail one. Short Story Classics. Brilliant, right? Wait, there's more. On top of this, we are already given the only two questions which are going to come in the exam. More or less. Yes, and out went the enthu to read anything for the exam.

But then, no other avenue to vent my otherwise inherent boredom meant that I finally did make it to reading something for the exam. We had to do an analysis of any one of the many authors we had discussed in class. On the style of writing of the author.

Naturally, as any other self-respecting person with self-diagnosed Incurable Lethargy of Body and Mind, I googled one of the authors, whose work (and more so, name) kind of appealed to me. He somehow reminded me of Somerset Maugham with his elaborate descriptions and the beautiful use of adjectives, ever so perfectly, ever so aptly. Alas, his actual works were not in English and I have but read translations. Moreover, his stories were hardly the gripping suspense or the rolling-on-the-floor-laughing humour variety. They were less involved.

He was French. He was Guy De Maupassant. And google him I did. But what I found was fascinating, and to an extent disturbing.

That is the inspiration for this post.

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It was indeed ironical that I am here in this institute. Ironical indeed. Some of my best works are about madness. Insanity. And here I am, locked up like all the other mentally unsound. Hilarious.

Whenever I close my eyes, I am taken back in time. It's like my own personal journey. To those wonderful years I spent writing poems. Short stories. Even novels, which I personally thought were quite distasteful. On the bank of the river Seine. The calm and serene Seine. Around her, the crowds went about their life, unmindful and perhaps, ungrateful for all they had. But I am indebted to them. Oh yes. For they, as ignorant as could be, were my muses. They would star in my works be it Mathilde Loisel or Maitre Hauchecorne.

Observation is the key to an artist's success. He has to observe everything. Details. Details are where the ordinary pale in comparison to the extraodinary. Be it the colour of the brooch worn by the cute madam as she rushes to buy her groceries or the way the wings of a dove flap as it leaves its perched harbour of a tree rising into the uncertanity of the open sky. The artist, a painter, a sculptor or an author, as I am, has to transport the reader into his world. They have to see through his eyes, hear through his ears and touch through his skin. That is the mark of a really great artist. And that was who I strived to be.

Those days the stories just flowed from my head into the ink as if an overflowing dam had been let loose. The stories, the characters, the plot. All of them had to be perfect though. There could be no doubt in the reader's mind of the intention of any part of a story or a poem. They were there and they were there for a reason. Such had to be my work. Such has to be any great piece of work.

That was then. But now its different. My priorities have changed. I no longer wish to be the best. I have proved enough. But it is puzzling to me how I, in the prime of my life, would be so ignorant to not comprehend all that I know now. But I'm glad I learnt. It was not more than ten years ago when I realised the reality of it all. How I had been so naive. So innocent.

The first time I noticed Them were when I was watching out my window. I could feel something on me that I couldn't quite explain. An uneasiness. A sense of nausea. A sudden feeling to stand up and shake it up suddenly enveloped me. And I did. And They were gone.

It wasn't until much later that I realised what They were doing. They were inside me. They were trying to kill me. Oh yes, They sure were. Running all through my body, killing everything in their part mercilessly. Truculently. I tried my best to kill them all. But they wouldn't go away. And then, it struck me that if I were to cut off their airsupply, they would cease to be. They would no longer trouble me. They would be eliminated.

And that was the morning before I moved into this institute. I was found trying to kill Them by cutting their airsupply. The doctors, well. The doctors can be ignorant sometimes. I can't blame them. Not all of us are blessed to be enlightened thus. Well, they thought I was trying to kill myself. I tried to explain the situation to them. They listened with their fictious concerned faces masking their smiles of ill-humour and their contrived look of pathos. They suggested I move in here for my own safety. I agreed.

Overall I feel much safer here. Away from all of Them. Its so quiet here. So quiet. One or two of Them still come here once in a while. But I take care of them. I find that writing helps. I try to tell the truth to all those who can understand. The ones who can draw a parallel to what I am saying will agree to that fact that these are my best works. The others, the skeptic critics, well, to them, I can only say that I hope they enjoy their proverbial bliss.

I know my time is near. I can feel it. I somehow don't want to die as yet. Truth be told, I am somewhat afraid of the whole ordeal. Its wierd that to experience the only human condition that has yet to be explained from a first hand account, one would cease to actually be. It is somewhat like a secret which you cannot tell anyone. The archetypical perfect secret. But I don't want to know the secret. Not yet. I don't think I can handle all that pain.

I can feel one of Them somewhere. Its somewhere new this time. I ... I don't know what to do. Oh My God, is this what death feels like? Strange that I would resort to calling out the name of God whose very existence I question. Strange is the world of man. Strange.


AAh.