56 years and 43 pages.

56 years and 43 pages. "That long?" you may ask, yeah, that is the truth, sad eh?

But it depends on how you look at it. The experience counts right? There are advantages which are obvious and experience is one.

"But surely, it could have been done earlier!!" you incredulously gasp and with your eyes rolled towards the skies, you wonder at my level of foolishness.

You think so, they all think so too. Ask any of them. They still do perhaps as confidently as they thought many years ago when I told them. Yes, they still do I guess.

Old habits die hard.

I remember when it all started. That evening by the lake. I don't remember any other fascinating details about that evening such as anything that an interesting novel would provide and satisfy your senses, but all I remember is that it was quite hot that evening and I had a bath late that night. It was indeed a long time back.

Pages can get crumpled, they get old too and with age it becomes hard to read what was once written on them. Memories fade and so does the ink on sheets of paper.

So what do I do with such crumpled sheets? Grey and showing wear and tear, I hardly make out what was written. It is interesting though to read the sentences and then guess the missing parts. Do try it sometime. You will almost feel as if you are an author. What shapes you, decides what fills in the missing parts and as you fill them you will actually realize yourself.

Yes, it is fun.

But it strains the eyes. To look at the words, the letters, look at their incomplete strokes and make up for the losses. I would suggest a nice table lamp. Perhaps a cup of coffee and a comfortable chair and a peaceful night too, will go great.
And then you tell me, how long it takes. OK?

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Tag: Literature Prose

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