I don’t know why I weep for them. It’s not like they are my own. I don’t even know them. Forget, they are all fictitious, a creation of someone. Still, they leave me feeling like a tree which has been bereaved of all its leaves, a person whose soul has been stolen, a stream which is flowing dry.
I lie on the bed with those heartfelt emotions which make me feel too bad to make me feel bad. I wonder if I weep for the magic of the pen or the camera or the brush or the strings on that guitar. Or for the souls behind them, who have put their souls in those magical creations. Or for the suffering souls who inspired those stories. Or because the souls in those stories are actually my unconscious souls!
Whatever it is, they show me what is so ugly in this world so beautifully. They show me what is there to weep for, to long for. But those stories don’t leave me happy. They make me feel like a lover, a lover whose love is not being reciprocated, but she still pines for her affection. She knows it makes her feel bad. But she still revels in his memories, for it gives her a kind of sad joy.
But every story does not have that charm, that magic, that celestial touch to it. It takes a VS Khandekar or a Sandeep Khare or a Harper Lee to knock you off your consciousness. You drink through their glasses to land in a mystical world of your own, a world which matter is made up only of your own emotions. You don’t want to leave it ever. The suffering of that teary-eyed world is much desirable than the crushing reality of this world.
But the reality is, such magical moments are very rare. You don’t see a falling star every time you look at the sky. You don’t enjoy getting drenched in every downpour. But that’s okay. Full moon is so beautiful, only because it appears only once in a month.