Twice upon a time, in a virgin land deflowered by the cruelty of its inhabitants, the famine of sanity made the whole land barren.
In this same land where strange happenings were no longer a stranger, the heart of a young boy was drawn like a still life art painted at the feet of his grandfather, who told him stories other than the fairy tales told under the moonlight.
Days slowly passed without saying good morning, and the night stars sometimes failed to illuminate the night sky. But the boy was there, always there listening to the words of wisdom buried in his grandfather stories.
Through the eyes of these stories, he saw the world. The story of those who died to gain their lives was just another genre of literature. He mastered the art of living, and took note of every long pause and short breath in between these stories. The pauses between the ellipsis meant more to him.
Years rolled like the tyres of a car travelling at 700 mph, and time flew faster than the blink of an eye. When the time was right, he left the suburb of his locality.
Events folded and unfolded, the boy of yester days became the rave of no moment. And one day, the boy had to return home to his now bedridden grandfather.
He looked at his grandfather with hesitation in his eyes. And in that moment of hesitation, wondered why his grandfather used his stories to lie to him.
“I want to fly above the sky,” he said, “but the sky is like a terrible nightmare I want to erase. Tell me, how can I score a goal when I’m playing with one foot?” he lamented.
The old man looked at his pitiful grandson with great pity, and said this: “Sad days, happy days, the day that will take your breath away, the day that will make you beg for more days, the day you want to change, the day you don’t want to forget, are the days of your life. Beyond the lines drawn, are your memories of each day. The effort you put it making in memorable or forgettable—”
“—defines you, when you finally realize reality is personal … and happiness is a best seller.”
“Think about it!”