The StoryTeller-Beginnings

 

He was a storyteller and he dwelt in his own story land. He was a king and the master of all those who believed in his stories. There were no people but characters that he could control and manipulate at his whims. He was a puppet master, controlling all his characters, pulling, snapping or twitching their strings. He was a storyteller and the world around him, was his domain. People that he knew his best friends, friends, girl friends, friends of friend and so on were all nothing but characters in his story land. They all believed in his delusions and make believes and believing in his stories they all unknowingly handed their reins into his hands. He was not cruel but he was manipulative for he understood how this world worked, he knew how to control people. He was a master, remember, and how to make people fall in love with him or how to arouse a feeling of hatred or disgust was something he was exceptionally good at. People are unsuspecting, irrational and emotional; they are all searching for love, love which is hard to find because we keep on looking for it in all the wrong places when all you need is look inside of you and this was what he used to lure people into his world, love the most ecstatic and poignant of all emotions capable of reducing a man to a weakling and making people fall in love with him was perhaps the first trick in his endless world of delusions. He showed them a world which never actually existed, a world where they believed they are the masters of their own destiny but what is destiny then, just a glorified rendition of events scribbled across the face of life. They in fact were the masters but only until the time when they started believing in his words and they believed without thinking because to think is to be free and a thinker is never a believer because after all no delusions are more stronger than the ones created by your own mind. He reigned, manipulating their effusions and twisting their abhorrence to look like desires and snapping their strings when he got bored of his puppets and that was perhaps the best of all parts, making people realize what they actually are, showing them the world which they thought never existed, like someone infallible falling and realizing the hardness of the ground beneath. These were the people who have lived their lives in a cocoon, thinking of it to be their world and when their dreams and believes shattered they were left with nothing but a lost puppy look on their face and they hated him for taking away their Shangri-La but little did they knew the hatred that they had for him was by and far the most overwhelming emotion, much more than love because when you hate you can’t help but think about your nemesis all the time, vengeance never fades, leaving you vexed with questions regarding your own existence. This was where he reigned, sans any stage or proscenium; he was his own audience and his own critic.

He was a storyteller and he knew the intricacies of what we all call as, World; it was here that he ruled, distorting, pilfering, replacing whatever perception people may have, perception which happened to be nothing more than a bystander’s account and was one bystander’s account better than another’s, that’s something open to interpretations, interpretations which he supplied and in abundance, he fed a pseudo ideology something which in spite of being his wasn’t his, something that was meant to soothe and more often reverberate through the entire human constitution, something potent but also something untrue and in this truthfulness of the untruth he ruled. There is no morality, other than pragmatic morality or this was what he used to say, morality which suits you the most is the morality of the day, you can’t be dogmatic and be virtuous because virtues and vices are all relative and relativity is again open to interpretations. There were others like him and he knew of that, in a way he held them in reverence, there were lines which he was never supposed to be crossing but again borders are all relative aren’t they, what may be the extent of your own self depends on how you define yourself, is anything impossible in this world, you would say not but for him to love someone endlessly and selflessly was the impossible of all the feats and this was why he reigned because he believed in the evanescence and finality that preludes everything and once you start believing in the finality and your mortality no one in this world could ever even come close to defeating you.

 There wasn’t a thing that he wouldn’t have done apart from falling in love, love the most excrescent and potent of all emotions, something capable of reducing even the most evergreen of all forests to smolders, could there have been a bigger fallacy then to fall in love, like spreading a net and then getting caught in it, a spider getting entangled in its web or a hunter getting hunted instead, to fall in love would have meant falling prey to his own delusions, to hand over your reins to someone else, to let go and become a part of whatever you have created and this was one thing he never allowed himself of for his wasn’t the only land of delusions, there were other more colossal and profound storytellers then himself and to become a part of someone else’s stories was something he wasn’t game for. That’s why he had to let go of people and his creations because love seeks longevity at its core and something transient, something ephemeral could never exude love and that’s why he reigned because strongest are the ones who have nothing to lose and strongest are the ones who stand alone.

He was a storyteller and she was just like him, more of a reflection than a perception, someone who was as capable and as infallible as him, someone capable enough to take down his entire dominion with a stroke of her hand but with her he felt no fear but then he was strong enough to be deluded by the promises that he made each day and a devil knows everything not because he is a devil but because he is old and he was old, literally though, old enough to see through any ruse or falsifications but there were none for she was what he would have called as an Anti Christ someone completely obtuse from his own existence, someone powerful but not ostentatious, someone proud but not conceited, someone eccentric but yet humane, an egotist but not megalomaniac. He felt something that he has never felt before, he felt as if all the stockades that he has corralled himself in were giving away, he felt an attraction, an infatuation, an unreasoning, an unbelonging; he saw for the very first time all the wounds that have lacerated his hands and soul, he felt tired of pretending and deluding and for the first time he felt like giving it all up not because he was afraid of falling in love but because he was in love and that instant he knew, why it was so easy for him to be a storyteller because it was so easy to fall in love and to be love is to be free and this deliverance was what that his puppets pursued by falling in love with him.

He felt a deluge of relief when he heard all those string snap away, he was free, he realized, free from controlling and manipulating and masquerading, he could for the very first time bid all his machinations, a good riddance, he felt like floating somewhere amidst the clouds, flying on the wings that her love gave him, falling in love with her he handed her his reins but she didn’t held on to them, to her he was someone free, someone whom she accepted with his own eccentricities and fallacies because to love is to accept sans any preconditions and sans any fine prints. She showed him a world that was her own, a world that she has created for herself, a world without strings and holding onto her hand he walked into her world with his backpack full of delusions and falsifications.

He was a storyteller and he succumbed to the nuances of love, by holding onto to her hand he become a part of her world, she believed in him, loved him and he too loved her and by falling in love he become what was known as a puppet in her hands, he fell prey to the one emotion that he most deftly used  but then isn’t love the most excrescent and blinding of all emotions, capable of reducing even the most virtuous of us to weaklings and he did fall but does to fall means to lose and what if whatever the world saw was just another of his delusions. You may say he lost or he was not that infallible after all and this was what the world saw and this can be only as true as their own interpretations but if storyteller fell for her and gave up everything to follow her path and thereby becoming what you may call a puppet then are you sure, I mean really sure that who is telling you this story and is this even a story?

 

 

The End

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