Musings of a Companion
I remember the day when he first set his eyes on me. I was in a dress of the deepest shade of red and the softest texture of velvet. There were many others, waiting for him to come and pick one amongst us. But I knew that he had fallen for me. I knew it from his smile.
I belonged to him. He told me all his stories, maybe because he loved me, or maybe because there was no one else he could tell them to. Some days, he would caress me and shower all his love on me. Some other days, he used to vent his frustration out on me. Either way, I would be left with bruises – some red, some blue, some others black.
At times, he used to shield me from the eyes of the world. At times, I was put on display.
He would sometimes hold me to sleep. Sometimes, I was his companion in sleepless nights.
Sometimes, he shared all his stories with me. Sometimes, we merely recapitulated the older ones.
I was the one who saw him let go of the reins of his imagination. I was the one sole confidant of his creativity and his flaws. I was the first one to get a whiff of his line of thoughts.
Today, I no longer have the shade of red or the texture of velvet that were once my pride. My cover is tattered and the velvet is worn-out at the edges. Some of my pages are torn.
Today, I pride myself in being the most prized possession of a writer. Today, I pride myself in being a writer’s diary.
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