On my way to the rooftop

A Story by Saikat

I am an old man in my sixties. Not that old, but yeah.

These days are never counted in my memories, when the sea shells are maculated, when the morning wind is tiresome, when the rain is gusty yet lull, and when you are gone. A dream is best if it eludes the pain, as for a man there ain't many options to handle the ball. He will try and then fail, or try then succeed and then forget. But for a women, it all ends in one thing, stained patches. Yeah by that way it never ends for her. Opening a bibliography to understand women would be the silliest thing to do in the world because words that cannot fit, cannot withstand and cannot sprout, are the words that matter. But then words matter a lot. For men its mostly unsaid.

A day is where I will again start the story. Morning bad, afternoon don't know, evening lost and the night, oh yet to come. I will keep scratching the floor like a mad cat, so can that improve my writing by an iota? It will emaciate, just like my health, with every new day helping me to discover one more bone of my skeletal system. I am this complex skeleton, I never knew. Especially when I was young. I thought I was all muscular, just like my masculine smell which she thought was me. And I thought she was madly in love with me. Gosh, was I nuts?

So tonight I will climb the rooftop, see the moon, well if I am lucky, and then jump over the flowing river that flows turbulently in the night. The water would be so cold. I would fill it my lungs and feel just like the river. I would try to flow with it, with its current for the whole night, and wait for the morning. I would hit the bank then and climb on it. She will be there. And then she will say, 'Oh you look young, so young!' But I wouldn't smile because then I will be faking it, wasting time actually. Instead, I will tell her how the moon looked when I was at the rooftop.