She had often screamed out ‘Why me’ into the 4 feet patch of woven thread that covered the wood floor of a space that exists nowhere now. Mr.Fourfeetpatch was the keeper of broken desires, had absorbed her tears, kicked her out of her own pity party, welcomed her back but had never answered.
Patchy had hoped she will one day realize how ridiculous she sounded. He would have breathed a sigh of relief today.
Had she not been thrown into that patch she wouldn’t have known the painful beauty of love. The uselessness of perfection and the fierce drive that comes when the delusion of happily ever afters fades away.
‘Tell me a story, he said.
There is no such thing as stories.
Because everything goes back to the beginning.
Does it never end
Ofcourse it does but all endings start at the beginning. It’s the same place.
We have a story
No we don’t. It’s a memory
We forget the place we keep on going back to
So we just have to string the memories together and when we do, we will arrive at the same place and know it for the first time