Stories. They are of all kinds. Some finish with a ‘The End’, some others with a ‘happily ever after’. Some others, fade away, some into oblivion, even. While some others, have peaks, of extremes. And at one such extreme, where you never expected them to, they suddenly, abruptly, come to a close. Some others, stare at you, in your face, while you’re too busy turning pages, and then, one bright morning, are over, just like that; just when you started noticing the crisp beginnings. Some others you thought wouldn’t make a good read at all; yet they turned out to be some of the most captivating chapters you came across.
Yet some others, never ended... because you never gave them a closure. You, particularly, did not give them a closure, or a beginning, for that matter. As you watched them bloom from a birds eye view, you knew, all the while that they wouldn't have one. Yet, you, silly you, wanted it, all of it; a beginning , a body, a closure even, if it came to that; wanted it with all your heart, sometimes, so clandestinely that you did not open it upto anyone but to the most imperceptible recesses of yourself. There, where you affectionately stored all those silly anecdotes, those that you did not tell, only smiled at, like a mother does at her naughty kid, when no one is looking. And all the while, you acted wise. To you, and to everyone around you. Perhaps, because that was the only way to preserve the charm. Perhaps, because that was the charm about them. Pristine, yet so decrepit. White, yet so grey!
PS: Eccentricities! Once!
