Chap IV. Nonchalance and Understanding

A voice came to me and I started writing..

I found myself. I found myself sitting somewhere on a bench. I was reading a book. It had a black cover. The sun was gone, the air was blowing. Two young girls with colorful hairs came and passed by. I stood up. I realized I was up to something. This was a moment. Here I was not knowing, why I was sitting there on that bench reading from that black book and letting young girls with colorful hairs pass by and here I am writing it. My life is strange, I felt. I don't know why my urges are so random and incoherent. I mean I had to somehow find that touch. The touch that makes me understand my present, carefully. Part of it could be writing about sitting on benches and realizing but part of it isn't about that. It isn't about colorful girls or black books. It isn't about the evening or the impending night. It isn't about the cup of coffee that I miss for unknown reasons. It is about senses. A perception. A moment and a flash and you get up from that bench and you take short steps. You know you have understood. You enter the building and take the elevator and walk straight to your office. You find your laptop and find yourself typing to it. You are typing what you have understood. Potentially.

People will however misunderstand. I mean they would think this is a offshoot from the black book I am reading. I am deliberately hiding the title of the book and its author to ensure evasion from well read literary critics who would write me off as a spinoff from a 70's failed literary genre. Some could say colorful haired girls always distract men and I came up with something to impress such girls at large. Others could also feel it's overstress , that lack of coffee mumbling up my brain. But didn't I make it clear it came to me. Just like three words that came to me as well. Tectonophysics. Rusell Crowe. Experimental Prose. Gee, the last one's is a giveaway. But it isn't about re-inventing the wheel. I vouch for it. It is about clarity. Influences are always there. I am subject to influence as well. I also realize I suddenly lost my narrative voice and I am becoming or turning this to a boring non fiction. Let's get back on track.

While I was enjoying my newly discovered 'understanding', I could myself listening to the distant noise in the lounge area across the corridor from my office. People or rather a person there was spending quality time on heating up food. Now I could hear him/her pass away. His/Her proximity does not change my understanding. The black book is also still with me. If I started reading pages, I will be influenced. So it's just lying in front.

Now my corridor is interesting. I say this and I go back to a historical event. Earlier today I found the door to one of the offices along the corridor, was open. Thus somebody else had also come to work on a Saturday and she wanted me to see her working on a Saturday just as I wanted to make sure it was her. She never came out of her office. I took some lonely strolls along the corridor. I strained my neck trying to peep if she's coming out from her office.

But what has this got to do with the story, my publisher would ask. I would have to persuade her and take some names from the past to justify the style. But the point is, I have made myself clear from the beginning what this was. I know it was about that understanding. The more I write, it stays clear. Night finally falls. A few noises get diminished. I focus back to my office work. My life drifts back. The passerby in the corridor rivals me in work in an adjoining office whereas the sweet looking girl who never showed up, outside her office door left for home when I wasn't around. Finally the colorful girls reach a masterful eatery and drink two Iced Mocha latte's and laugh along. I disgracefully admit I lost part of my understanding and even feel if I had acquired it at all, from the beginning.