If you’re reading this, it would mean that I’m dead. Or at least at the brink of death, waiting and wishing for it. I took it out from a book somewhere, I think; that particular phrase. Or maybe it was a movie. I can’t remember. I am probably still in one piece though. Or maybe not. Whatever. Well, I hope that I am. And in this particular world, this is the part where I, by this time dead (or dying), tell my life’s story. Either my entire life flashes before my eyes, or a time-warp happens with just enough suspension to allow me to narrate what I need to.
If my life were extraordinary enough, a relatively obscure book would have been written about it, though not before being rejected even more times than the present record. Perhaps a film by an independent filmmaker? Hmm… years later, there would be some legal dispute over the remake, shuttling it to heights never seen before. And then, this would spawn remakes with A-list casts. Maybe even a TV series spin-off or something. And if it all were true, would it generate more publicity, more money? And th—
Wait, what? It will? Really?
Okay, make this a very true story then. Sorry for the interruption. Where was I? Ah, yes. My life’s story. So once upon a time, I was born under extraordinary circumsta—uh, no, scratch that—under a most incomprehensibly tedious spectrum of plain dullness. And one day, all of it changed, with that, my whole life. Of course, this being a true story, there will be no talking animals, or evil, sparkly, sparkly people for that matter, unless Damien Hirst’s scarily sparkly skull is a key role in my zero-to-hero transformation. Speaking of which, my old car still is exactly what it is, a car, at the end of the day. Totally old-fashioned.
By some twist of fate, I find destiny dawning upon me, a position which countless men before me have found themselves in. They have undertaken the challenges and have failed (some have actually succeeded, but because they don’t have blonde hair, blue eyes and chiseled cheekbones, their stories are not worth retelling). This takes me on a physical and mental journey, and my tainted soul is tortured and taunted, as I carry out existentialist conversations in my head. The bothersome burden is mine and mine alone to bear, on this dastardly dark path.
After a series of fascinating and thought-provoking trials, during which nothing explodes and no violent car chases take place (it’s real life, people!), I slowly but surely change in subtle ways. I meet my soulful soulmate at this point. Just to spice things up, a few others vie for my attention but in the end, true love prevails (or otherwise something along those lines). As I prepare to face my destiny, I wind up in a sticky situation, resulting in me perfunctorily penning the very words that started it all.
If you’re reading this, it would mean that I’m dead…
By now, you should (technically) be rooting for me and be eager to know what doom awaits me like some sullen, stiff-necked butler of Death Manor. What do I write next that is so important? Is it a red herring, one where a deus ex machina is waiting just around the river bend to save me from my terrible fate? Is there a happy ending with a happily-ever-after in sight? Or am I really, beyond any reasonable doubt, dead, ending my short (but true) tale on a brilliant and beautifully, but sad note?
And that, my patient friends who have managed to reach the end of this weird, whimsical, waffle, is called storytelling. Sans a real Storyteller, that is.
Image taken from here.
Ever wondered what a writer’s block looks like? Wonder no more. The writer would have said that this piece was inspired by two parts vodka, one part lime but then that would be cliché.