Love Story

Love Story

Life was happening happily. In the abyss of her thoughts, deep buried in the vaults of imagination, I lay. Overgrown mane of expression, blemishes of guilt, untrimmed extensions of fear, I was raw and wild. 

One fine day, she just caught hold of me. There was doubt, and more self-professed doubt when she held me in her mind. Ours was a serendipitous encounter. When the world failed her, she wrote the despair on my heart. When the waves of neglect crashed upon her, she built castles on my shore. Soon she realized mere musings of this love were futile. She needed to give words to our feelings. Thus, began a dialogue and she never failed in showing her affection over just telling it. Her inky emotions touched my devices. I was her mate of solitude.

We made love every single day. Sometimes she laid me on a screen and tickled me fervently till both of us smiled, contentedly. Sometimes she put me on a different page and poked me till we both wept incessantly. What never changed was our way of meeting; she inevitably above me and me indefinitely under the weight of her imagination. 

The affair was unfailingly privy to us. The world was in complete dark till one day she thought of bringing me to light. After a rigorous love making session, she very abruptly sent me to a friend. 

Ohh, ahaa, nah…was all I could mutter as the friend punctuated, remodeled, chopped parts of my tender body. Fatty, weighing down parts hashed to fine-tune. In what seemed to be ages, the torture ended in few minutes. Chic, pragmatic, toned and in touch with reality, my body was cut off extra layers. Yet, little ingrown flesh was purposely left scattered to create conflict. Distorted under the name of presentable, I landed on her lap and she on top.

“You seem different!” 

The surprise was visible in her demure eyes.

“Yes my darling, I’m the sculpted form. The way society would love to see us together. The way masses will cherish my presence.” 

But her blind love never heard me. 

“You heartless Lass! How could you do this to my STORY!! This isn’t what I wrote!” I heard her vocal timbre alter. A miserable wallflower in the party of life was getting possessive of me.

“Relax my dear,” Her friend smoothed over the serrated exposed, irrational, emotional edges.

“An artifact has to face the hot embers before it is auctioned for millions. A phoenix emerges only from the ashes.”

Suddenly, I glowed in my new found resurrection in the friend’s Last Judgement. Jubilant and chuffed, I jumped as her gaze went up and down searching for her old story in me. Overwhelmed, her heart wept. How beautifully a weed had grown into an orchid, only because the friend had first seen it and then believed in it. My liposuction was what they called ‘Editing’.

Her story, the Novel me, was indeed Booker worthy. Red carpet time, guys!
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