And the award for the best author goes to…
The neon lights were flashing on me. The host asked me “how do you write? Where do you get the inspiration to write”?
To the world, it is a stone, a hideout, a headquarters of the naughty gang of our town but for me, it is my inspiration. There was no space left on the stone. Stories from the heart, stories of love and hate, names of the lovers, friends, and enemies, exam identity number and prize-winning lottery number, nicknames, vulgar and sexy words and many more.
We played tic tac toe on the stone. One of my friends carved the tic tac toe permanently so that we never had difficulty to draw the board game every time with the stolen chalk pieces from our classroom. There were heartwarming stories of dreamers and heart wrenching stories of unrequited love.
I watch a tree, the falling leaves, the rustling sound, the chirping birds, the nests in the trees, and the hatchling’s screech.
I watch the sky, the birds that fly, single or in a skein, the migratory birds, the cloud shapes, and the rain. While you run for shade, I gaze at the sky, the pitter-patter drops and wonder how they fall from the heavens.
I watch the kids happily building sand castles at the beach, the way they shovel the sand with bare hands, their dreams of building the castle strong and high, the strong waves traveling towards them, the worry in their eyes about their castles getting washed. I see the promises in their footprints they leave on the wet sand. While you are keen to smack the sandcastles, I look for help to save them.
I watch the woman sitting lonely at the beach, look for her facial expressions to know the mood swing, I worry if she is sad and I’m happy if she enjoys the sea despite the burning sun.
I look at the crossroads and the people. Some are in pairs and some alone. I see a mix and match of old by age but young in heart, happy to be single and sad as a pair, fighting pairs and adolescent lovers dare.
I watch the girl in the black sobbing sadly. While you see her tears, I see the pain in her eyes, the falling doppelganger, and the alter ego. Her shadow weaves a beautifully sad story.
While you read the face, I read their heart. Their heart tells me the stories to write.
I am deafened by the thunderous claps..
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