Writer's Eye

He was in his white t-shirt, topped with a cream sleeveless jacket. He walked down, unsure of how well he might fit into this ever socialising crowd. He can’t. He looked around, saw a Bench, not empty but an edge for his own. His orange pants were very prominent especially when it is glued on to that thick leather shoe of his. His specs described him a thinker, rather a lost thinker hoping to find the path with them. After a few deep breaths he took out a book from his yellow bag. It was a book by Orhan Pamuk. He used his clumsy fingers in turning the pages, pausing at each page to recall the details required to carry forward once again. Flips here and there, for he might have read the book twice, and was trying to figure the story behind the story.

After the warm up reading session, he took his pen and book. His fingers were equally clumsy in moving the fountain pen, he found its pace too slow compared to the thoughts in his heads. He was afraid he might miss the words and emotions in this speed. Then suddenly the racing with the thoughts stopped. He looked around for a while. Flipped a page, searching for some subject. In this city of abundance that wasn’t tough. He stared at many, rejecting one by one. Creepy guy people might have thought. Who cares.

There was this guy, a regular mostly. Smoking a Cigar. One puff after another. He was in no hurry for anything. He might just enjoy making a stroll. A smile of being uncaged. Our writer started staring at him with a smile, but was going to reject him anyways. For the peace has no content but silence in them. But by then, the mobile of the Cigar-Guy started ringing. He thought twice before even reaching for his pocket. He prayed that it was just an illusion. If he doesn’t pick it now, maybe it won’t ring again and he might continue his date with the bliss. He kept staring at the mobile. Allowing it to go back to its silent state. Then with a smile he kept it in, just in time for the next ring. He felt the defeat, thanks to technology and answered the call. He had already played this role many times, and knew the scripts by heart. No surprise or change in the words. He mumbled his lines and hanged. He took a final puff on the cigar, and gathered his frustration and used them in throwing the little cigar away which was half alive. The guy frustrated made a turn and went back to the street he just happily escaped from.

Our writer made a sign of victory, for he found his subject. The peace wasn’t there, and the huge content dropped down in his pen. He went on racing again with his thoughts. Writing about the guy, his peace, his frustration, his duty. He gave the unknown person a past which had a beautiful wife and son. A past where he was having so many duty to accomplish, employers to satisfy, colleagues to cooperate, parents to obey, and family to feed. His past had details of his passion which he misread, and addictions which mislead. The writer was happy with the details, now he went into the thoughts of the future, to sketch them out for the readers. Details of him going back to the office for some senior’s mistake. Or maybe going for an emergency call. Whatever it maybe, it wasn’t he who was riding it. He was in the backseat going to wherever the drivers took him. Unpleasant maybe but he can never have the guts to stop the drivers and take the steering off their hands. Never willing to start learning to drive. And thus went his writing on the subject he saw. He read it once and twice. And then crossed it out. Not enough to please the reader. They want ground reality, but not the facts and truth. They would pity him, talk about him, but forget the ride they are having themselves. Not for the next book, he noted.

He was bored. This city is full of people repeating the same act. Just like those ants that follow the same route. It’s the ant lost away from the route that gets our attention and curiosity of what it might be doing when the others are following the norms. Maybe tomorrow he might find a better subject. And now its late and he would rather reach home for his desk, for another session with his thoughts. He took his bag out, struggling to zip in the book and pen. His hope of finding his theme outside failed him today. He stood up with a cheesy smile on his face, trying to get into the crowd and walk down straight to the subway in the left.

Meanwhile, he never noticed a writer sitting in front of him, writing. His subject was interesting though. The ant that had lost away from its path. The ant that is trying to figure about the line it missed. Unaware where to get in from. Weird, aint it when two people are searching in the same place for a theme to pen, one gets it and one doesn't.