Ron the master story teller had been spinning some of greatest stories of his time. He was from the city of Joy. He and other story tellers would tell stories and the rest of the city’s inhabitants would live by enacting them. It was a good city, where peace and calm prevailed. Life in all its colors was embraced by one and all. It bordered the city of sorrow. The thematic being that of, travails and tribulations, which bind a human spirit in unrelenting shackles. The city of sorrow too had story tellers and actors, enacting the pangs of misery and pain.
Though the two cities were in neighborhood, they were dreaded by either of their inhabitants. Because once anyone had lived in both, he always left for the third world- never to come back. And no one knew what that third world was.
Ron, a virtuoso, had a deep and sublime idea of well-being, which would shine through his works. But he knew that he was still missing the forest for trees. Like a man possessed, he would spend hours in dissertations on happiness, to verify its veracity. But it being the city of joy, had nothing contrary to offer. As time passed, his idea grew bigger than himself. He started to experience what he never had – queasiness and an inexplicable flurry – that alienated him amongst his men. His loneliness which he couldn’t define started to affect his work and clarity of thought.
One fine day, he thought it was his calling. The third world had summoned him. He started for the city of sorrow. And as he went around the city, he slowly found meaning to his own state. He was familiar with tears, but these were warm as from deep despondency within. His heart would contract, mind would be numb. He would be feverish and would spin some heart-rending stories for the actors.
Some years went by and he started to lose the art of story telling. He was lonely again - but this was the most comfortable state he was in, thus far.. The quality of this solitude was what he was seeking. Stories died and he was unwanted, unsought again - giving him the indication to his final destination.
Nobody knew where he went thereafter, but his parting words were - 'I come to freedom, melted and warm - mould me, the way you want'
Some years went by and he started to lose the art of story telling. He was lonely again - but this was the most comfortable state he was in, thus far.. The quality of this solitude was what he was seeking. Stories died and he was unwanted, unsought again - giving him the indication to his final destination.
Nobody knew where he went thereafter, but his parting words were - 'I come to freedom, melted and warm - mould me, the way you want'
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