As he lay on the floor with yet another neat little soldier of death burning slowly between his fingers, he wondered if he could have done it all a little different. The whiskey clad breath emancipating from his nostrils heaved another sigh, and the man in the mirror on the other side of the room hung his head in shame. Such promise, such talent. All going down the drain. He used to be a poet, had in grasp a semi-decent hand at the guitar, a mind that could have gone places if not haunted by its own demons. A life that could have moved in a direction so different, a love that he had in his grasp albeit for a fleeting second.

He had never been a hard-worker, and, you know, that was just fine. His passions used to pump him up, and when he took upon a project, the only thing he could see in the complete spectrum was what he wanted to do, and he stayed on with it till he ran it to completion. If you go read his earlier pieces, you’d know what is being talking about here! His only driving force was the fire that was within, be it writing a new story or coming up with lyrics for a new song, perfecting that one kick when he played football, winning someone over. And people around him saw it, the light that radiated from within, the smile that sometime lay plastered on his face. And it made them happy, to be with him, to be around. As he tried to push his sorry ass off the floor, all he could think of was that fire, and whatever transpired that extinguished what remained of it, leaving him hollow. Was it because of it that they all left? Or did the fire die when they did?

He had always been haunted by voices inside his head. He had pushed them deep into a vortex where they could not touch him anymore, but that, that was before. That was when he could distract himself with everything going around, but being alone, they slowly broke away. And he could not help but listen to them. They were coming from his head, they were real! And they took him to her. Talked about her, dug up a beautiful memory and place it in front of his eyes and make him fall far far away to a world that was nothing but her. It revolved around her smile, and the walls were painted with their love. Far across, there was her, and in between, the memories they made together. To go to her, he would carefully swim into each of them, and just as he thought he’d made it, just as he dared to touch her, the walls crumbled down and he woke up in a jolt of reality.

As he looked across of what remained of the man in the mirror, he wondered for how long could he keep trusting the voice inside? For how long could he hide himself in the pretext of the life that passed him by? Hang his head in shame after whenever the voice asked him to put his hands inside his pants and give a little yank in the middle of the night, or have another glass of spirits when he knows that the night has been done before a long long time. Then another, and another. And again, he was back, wanting to touch her, feel her, caress her. Indulge in sloppy kisses, place a hand on inside of her thighs as he prepared to go inside. “No wait, wait, NO! stop! STOP!”, he screamed at his head to not go there for once as tears streamed out of his eyes again.

Will it ever stop? Will he ever be home when he is alone? Will he ever find his peace or it’ll be yet another sad case of a bright light gone ashtray? If at all, for him, will it ever cease to hurt? Will the demons go away? Will the fire come back? Can he smile again?

Shine on, you crazy diamond.

“Damn! This is painful.”, he thought as he tried to keep her thoughts at bay that moment. It was a constant struggle, every waking hour of every single day. Especially when it was so easy to immerse his self in the sea of memories they’d made together- their first kiss, their second kiss, holding her close, making love. Each of them brilliant, each so much fun! Them sneaking off to steal a kiss when their friends were in the other room, her holding him close when she knew no one was looking, them both waiting for the other to ask for an evening of wine, her tantalizing glances that drove him mad! Mesmerizing, pure moments. They put him in their spell each time he thought of them, and he could smile. On what there was. On what could have been.

As someone who believed in science more than on himself, he knew that dwelling in could haves is as stupid as it could get. But the writer in him compelled him to look that way, pick up the pieces from before when they left off to create his own worlds. There, each of his could haves had its own space. Each narrative different storyline. A new world, where the outside didn’t matter, he would fill them in with colors, detail it with the things they used to love. It would be their world, custom to their likings, their demands, their dreams. He would off to play football each evening, and not be injured. She would dance her way into the world, and no one could have anything to say. And they’d be together every night. Oh, and there would be stars. Twinkling, playfully announcing that they are real. As real as the two of them.

Playing with memories wasn’t bad, what hurt was snapping out of them. Looking at everyone go around hand in hand, knowing that they were meant to do that. Knowing that somewhere, she might be thinking the same thing. Knowing that somewhere, she might be with someone, thinking of him. Him not realizing when their expiration date came.

He’d kept his indulgences at bay for sometime now- they flooded in the memories. Indulgences solidified them and placed them in front of his eyes. Then he couldn’t help reaching out to the phone and message her, call her- ask her if she missed him as the same way he did- something he always regretted the next morning. But today, as he was finishing up the almost empty bottle of scotch, he felt so much more in control. “Brilliant! I’ll probably go and get another half, the night is still young. Hell, I feel fine, I can switch on my phone again, will not call her!”. Maybe he felt like giving himself a treat for being sober for so long. For not giving into his memories. For standing up.

He wasn’t even finished with racing his car to the fourth gear when the phone rang. He looked down to see who could it have been when a screeching horn brought him back to the world.

“Fuck!”

His wasn’t just a passing monologue, it were a repertoire of rudimentary memoirs. Of the millions cached in the huge sachet of what he called his little treasures, some lit up unlike any others. He had always thought of himself a painter of battles, a silent vigilante, a rock on the shore- only to be hit at, taking it all. There, looking at the waves, distant but ever involved, on the endless canvas of imagination, he painted his photographs.

And when a wave strong enough came crashing down, he safely stored what he had painted in the little book called life. While most were no more than scribbled notes in the margin, every once a while, he found some good enough to form paragraphs. Very, very rarely, he were lucky enough to do paint a masterpiece, and they would form his chapters. Oh, it was heartbreaking when his chapters ended! And once, only once he met someone, someone so integral, so special- he put her name in the title.

Ever met someone who even the air smells of even when they aren’t there? You close your eyes, and you can breathe the scent of their neck, the touch of their lips, the warmth of their fingers, the taste of their tongue! You look forward to the mornings just because you can wake up next to them, the nights so that you can sleep with! The time in between tends to be wonderful just because they are around. You find yourself catching a lazy grin and you don’t know why! And you think you would do anything to let that feeling last forever. They knew it might not end well, they knew the days ahead might be black, but together they would make it the best shade of darkness they’d ever seen. They would laugh and cry, and smile at inappropriate times; walk in the snow- hand in hand, and grow old together, listening to the idiosyncrasies of the other. And once a while, she would ask him what she meant to him. He always showed her the book, and she would know.

Years later, she found herself again at the shore. Time had torn them apart but she always knew where find what remained of him. He was long gone, but she found his book. A tear escaped her eyes and she spoke to no one in particular, “why aren’t there any new entries, you promised, you promised you wouldn’t stop.”

He never did, till the day he died. The pen never left his hand, (with her gone) just the ink went dry.