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  • Writer's pictureMadhusudan

Stories (Advait part 3)

I don’t know how long, I slept. My dreams never made sense to me. They always felt obscure, fragmented, and sometimes very claustrophobic. They woke me up sometimes, feeling scared and isolated.

I went to a boarding school at the age of 5, at the time when I couldn’t even tie my shoelaces or my pajamas. I don’t even have clear memories of my childhood, they too like my dreams are fragmented. Maybe someday like a puzzle it will all come together. Everyday after dinner, we had play-time and a very favorite teacher of mine would tell us stories. Although I don’t quite remember those stories but it did for sure made a deep impact in my fragile mind. Who knew years down the lane I was being prepared to be a storyteller.

Stories are addictive, because like any other drugs it takes you into it’s own world, where you are the creator. Ask any filmmaker, how high they get when they are making their films, away from the reality we enter our own world. No wonder so easily we detach from everything which is real, not appreciating what we have, always running after the mirage. Before I realized my life had blurred the line between my existing reality and my fictitious world. One had to surrender, one had to be merged in another, one had to loose its identity, it was just not possible for them to co-exist. My greatest fear won, my creation, my stories, my fairy land, my escapist heart won….and thus leaving me…Alone.

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