There had to be a reason why he is today the way he is. He'd either stand out in a crowd or he'd be like an invisible gush of air that passes by which no one cares to notice. But nevertheless, he'd always be alone, away in his own thoughts.
They say everyone has a story to tell yet there are stories we never get to hear. Stories of pain, of grief, of trauma. And these stories would make you wonder if they are true.
And then these stories would tell you that it matters not if you do not have a good job, a good love life, or social life or a good career. Because when we talk of death, nothing else seems to make sense, nothing else seems to matter.
He'd always talk of things that would seldom make sense, if at all. And what he couldn't say, he would write.
He had to write. There was no other way. For the only one who'd listen to him had left him far behind. And she went not to a place where he could meet her, even if for a day. She went to an abode out of his reach.
"Heaven", he said, "she dwells there now."
I could cry, I could say I am sorry for asking about her or I could say nothing at all.
Silence, I choose not. For sometimes it's as cruel as the harshest of words.
As I search for words what to say to this grief-stricken soul, I wonder hadn't I always thought of stories he must have been hiding. Hadn't I always wondered what might be the reason behind the way of living he chose. And now that I got to know the immense pain he bears each passing day, I secretly wish I had never wondered, I had never asked.
