Help!

"I am dying. I can fell it in the air. I can feel it in my bones, I can feel it my hair. I was a child just a few days back and look how time flies. I had dreams for myself, not one but many and I outgrew each. As days passed so did my heartbeats and with each a new dream. I could have been this or that. I wanted to be this or that. I was okay with being mediocre too but even less, I had not estimated. It is not that I am dead but I can feel myself melting away as if the self I carried has disappeared with time. Layers have been worn off and slowly everything will unravel into nothingness. What is the point of beauty or worth, if it is not appreciated. Any greatness not recognized is self-delusion. And I am not delusional.

I am dying and the people around me, don't know this. They expect me to participate in their daily charades. Let's chat they say and let's dance. But they don't talk, they gossip, whisper nothings. They don't dance, they repeat steps they remember, steps that others will appreciate. I know I am not great. It was I think the first thing I recognized about myself. That and the fact that I used a lot of 'I' in my work. But I write what I write even if I write a lot Is. Days pass, even years and what will they remember of these days and years. The great nothing. No consequence like billion others before them, they will slide of the face of earth. Do you realize we have one lifetime to live and that's it. Voila like a cheap magic trick we will disappear from the face of this earth never to return. Finish! Vamoosh! and nothing. Do not think much and life makes sense. For a moment stop and think and this vast castle of cards falls apart leaving nothing. I am dying. We all are."

Look what I found in her bag.

Let me see that... Wow.Too much angst. I think you should talk to your daughter, maybe she needs help. Is she okay? Is she sick?

Yes, yes she is fine. I promise. But, but do you, with all your writing awards, think it's good? Would you give her any tips to improve her work?

Not bad actually, if she didn't mean it. I think she should expand on it. Explore her inner sensibilities a bit further. There are hints of excellence which if worked upon could make this printable. But this does not look like a work of 17 year old girl. Are you positive it is your daughters work?

Yes, yes, of course, who else would write it. Not me.

You girl's quite grown up then. Tell her she will be alright, she could always be great writer.

You really think so sister?

The day after, years later

It was a stupid fight. A war of egos. Why did he act so base?  It did not make sense. Last night he had pitied himself. It made no sense. He must have been wrong. Not that she was completely untouched of evil but he, he knew better. He understood the deeper reason for all this. Why did he need to act such? Someone has to make those sacrifices. Someone has to understand. He was supposed to do that. They had agreed to it. Take the deeper lunge. Come out unscathed. The gender let him down and he was ready to repent it now. He didn't mean it. He did not know what to say when the time arrived. Always the incorrect words, always the flaring of a spark and the regret on the day after.

He turned left. She looked so pretty asleep. So pure of infractions of emotional kind. He must have been wrong. How can someone so pretty ever be incorrect? He stared at her. She was calm. Last night had not been. Where was the gentleness of this soul, the humanity of emotions, anything, but the ferociousness of impulses.

He touched those cheeks, that face. These were not the thoughts of last night. She was untouched of societal pressures. She knew what was right. She said she did. He hoped she did.  This wasn't the first time.  He had seen her like this many times. but this morning was different. It had been like waking  up in a time warp. Every morning he woke up in love. but today was different. He tried to bring forth the same love. but it was missing. He loved her. He thought so, he ought to. but there was something missing. He could not find the same lovely lady he had fallen in love with the morning before. She was not the same girl, she was not her, she could not have been her. He summoned all the repressed feelings of love but he was staring at an empty pot (par uske samne sirf ek khaali gadha tha). There was nothing more left to give. Where was the love, where the emotions? It seemed  like a long time ago when he had promised her he would not change. He had. It was his fault. He could not find those evil nuances he had loved. The face was suddenly normal. It was the same old. He tried to make himself emotional. Forcing himself to think of all those dreamy nights when he had been engulfed himself in her charms. Her faced looked ordinary. What was it that she did few days back? Memories of her smile, her impish look and not a rock moved in his mountainous heart. As if all the emotions had drained out. Even this thought registered at a sub optimal level. but what is optimal. I should be angry at least but could not bring himself to cry. He ought to be sad but he could not bring himself to shout. He wanted to love but could not. This was not his first time in love, it was his first time out of it. What irritated him was that he would  nothing about it, time would pass and things would happen. In brief, he would act distant and not talk about it, she would notice and would talk about it, he would agree but not talk about it, he would hurt her and not talk about it, they would engage in a scene and would shout about it, he would be back in it and she would be out of it. Life makes for strange stories when you wish to add emotional spice to your bland going on. Anyways she woke up, he had agreed it was his fault last night, she acted normally, he gave up on being dramatic and life was normal again. But the memory lingered.