Have you ever seen a person crying over his/her own grave? Have you ever heard a requiem sung by the person for oneself? Have you ever seen someone reading an epitaph of one’s own death? Have u ever…

There were graves in plenty…ofcourse what else do you expect in a grave yard? At sometime silence was screaming there, at some other the pines were whispering and all I could hear or feel was a strong waft of sadness around. There was death and so everything was sad.

A strange feeling touched my soul. I saw flowers hiding beneath the bushes and smiling, giggling as if someone has tickled them and they couldn’t control their laughter even at someone’s death bed. But I was agitated. I plucked those flowers to shower on the deathbed I came to visit. Still they were smiling.

So , there was this grave I came to visit who took the burial of a writer’s dead body. The boulevard of emotions where I just came to lay my pieces and mourn some artificial tears was my own dead body. The writer in me was suffocating since so many days. Words scoffed in the body. Whenever I took my pen to scribble few words, the paper gave up..the keystrokes at some times stopped breathing and at some other times the brush painted nothing. The writer in me was sad…wanted to put in somemore colors but the canvas was just black. Too dark for the demons even.

Long back, once upon a time, I must say, when I met this writer for the last time. She laughed at me …her lips I remember were now brown from what I once saw were like petals you may call it baby pink. The forehead marked the lines of listlessness, depression and whatnot? I tried to find out the reason but as people say writer’s don’t talk much. They don’t like just blabbering on and on…They just arrange few pains, few smiles, weave a journey around it and present it to people who read them with same emotions, same tears and same smiles. Same was this writer but long back, I found her sad, often wondering about things, searching for some thing or the other but finding none. I saw her finding and making equations of this concrete and materialistic world. I told her..this ain’t your job…If u gotta calculate things you should be a mathematician.

On this thing of mine she passed a smile and kept silent..Strange.

I saw her finding pleasure in so many things. But oflate things failed to entice her. No nature’s beauty, no art, no culture, no relationships and heck not even rains….

What ? No rains?

When I heard this I knew something was seriously wrong. Yap! And I was right. She was going to her serious and silent suicide.The demons of don’t know what were making her afraid. She wanted to tell everyone but writer’s are silent people and slowly she breathed her last breath.

I tried to lend her some air, some rain, some love…but it was too late. She has lost the charm of life and she died.

Today I am here mourning over the writer’s dead body. I am putting some flowers here…