Monologue Series: III

I was searching a life for myself, amidst my torn status, dilapidated and old. I gathered all my leftover energy and started a journey to find a place where I can live healthy and happy. I thought the homemaker was the best bet to begin with. However, I found her engrossed in the Macy's catalogue; deeply sighing with every page flipped, and staring the one too many unneeded things in sheer most unnecessary delight. I paused and thought may be her kid is a better bet for me. I reach him, and saw him lost in a Gameboy and wondering about more complicated video games. The teenager boys and girls were a useless option anyway, so I decided to see someone in countryside. Oh my! Most of the persons were lost in city television programs, dreams of visiting skyscraping cities, playing with guns, and other one hundred and one such idiosyncrasies. I finally decide to travel overseas, visiting the nooks and corners of the humblest planet earth, who allows us to do millions of whimsical fanaticisms since time unknown, and will continue allow us to do so. Simplicity, that is me, descended to most of the developed and developing countries. But I hardly found any place where people weren't striving to make life more complicated with cars, light, internet, music, rock, pop, concerts, and yet more. The temples and shrines were filled with cacophonous devotees, while the cities were filled with a rush towards creating a useless rush in life. The countryside was aspiring to become like the cities. Mountains, rocks, valleys, rivers, stones, and virtually everything had marks of one or more artificial fancies. I started losing courage; and I started to submit to the dilapidation and weariness, which was swallowing in slowly like a giant python. Suddenly, I flew to Antarctica; only ice and nothing more. It became my next dreamland, so hard for the artificial to encroach, and I walk with agile and soft steps with penguins whenever I want to.

Monologue Series: II

I walk in a neat, fitted, and creased dress towards the door of a home. A kid and his sister watch me coming up to the front entrance of the house, quite excited about the stuff I have in my hands. But they keep looking through the glass windows, and no one opens the door for me, even when I return back. It looks like as if they are bound by the manners of the unmannerly, who don't wish to become mannerful and kind to the approaching visitor. I move on and while I ascend into my jeep, an old woman watches the contents of my hands, as if she likes one of those shiny envelope, carefully designed by a computer and is flashy in appearance. I smiled; and got a smile back from her wrinkled face, an example of the effect of that time has on every entity. Then I drive towards the home of Rosanna, the beautiful, with a deftly wrapped gift, in a golden shade. The gift is trembling in my hands, as if shivering with the expectations of touching her soft hands. I reach her home on 123 Beautiful Street and walk with an unusual gait to reach her door. I ring the bell, with the hope of a sweet moonlight like belle opening the door. However, to our, the box’s and mine, dismay no one was home. I quickly pull out a notepad and write a note for her. I show, with the note, that I came with a gift but you weren't home and I care, so I am leaving the note at your door. Please give a call if you wish to talk with me and get this exquisite gift box from me. May be you, the reader, never thought how closely I care for you, but as a postman, I bring all the good stuff, with some junk mail, at your doorstep. You never open the door to greet me, like the two kids, but I always smile at you. I carry all your curiosity and collectibles in my hands and yet not receive a coffee offer on a cold afternoon. I care for you even if you are not home and I keep trying till I am able to find you. My secure hands and my exceptional care are always meant for you.

Monlogue Series: I

A word about the monologue series: I am unaware if people have carried such exercise, but in short, about 300 word essays, I will try to capture the image of a typical person from a profession or age or similar such strata. I hope readers will enjoy all such blogs. In each series, the last line will highlight the person I am talking about. Or perhaps, in any line, so that no one reads the answer first. Here is the first one:

As I come out of my office building, my spectacles slip from my nose; restlessly, I place them back and then the boy at the door smiles. His smile does not induce enough positive field to convert my frown into a smile. I just ignore him, and start walking down the field, with my eyes glued to the ground. A lady notices me; I walk like a person with eyes staring the ground, as if trying to find the unknown lying there, yet my eyes are not focused on the soil. God only knows, what I am looking at, if I am looking at something. Suddenly, I dip one foot into a mud-pile and notice it after the aftermath. I aghastly wipe my shoe in the grass and walk while the fetching mutt watches me in amazement with his ball jawed in his teeth. I walk little further; disgracefully disgracing the presence of a graceful blonde, making her wonder that how can someone ignore her beauty and presence. I keep walking, with thoughts like if I am elder than Mike, Mike is elder than my wife, my wife is younger to me but elder to Alice, Alice being younger to mike but elder to Jane; what can I say about age relation between Mike and me. I ignore the fresh breeze, the soft winds, the heavy looking gray clouds at the horizon, and orange lining over the clouds due to setting sun, the blooming fragrant flowers amidst these age relations. I strike the lily, which leaned forward to perhaps shake hands with me, with my age-old winter overcoat, even though it is not yet winter. I hardly notice her soft outcry and the nimble attempt to move away from me. I reach the grocery store, and recall my shortest path through the aisles 1, 3, 6, and 7 to the express checkout counter. On return, I suddenly stop at the door, and start counting the discounts till a small boy requests, ``excuse me'' from behind. I reach the home, finally, and hang my overcoat at the door. I pick up a small pastime book, ``how to become a successful mathematician,'' and slumber into my comfortable rocking chair.