The clock strikes 10; my phone buzzes, I disconnect the call from work and turn my face away to stare deep into the darkness; the park is hauntingly empty at this time of the day.
‘Running away isn’t a wise choice, dear – ‘
I look in the direction the voice came from, a man sitting beside me, his face vaguely visible in the faint light; irritably, I utter, ‘Pardon?’
‘Don’t elude the reality – ‘
The calmness in his voice angers me; I reply, ‘Don’t preach to me…this job’s killing my inner self; I’m not who this job demands me to be…I’m an artist, I – ‘
‘Then bring that artist out of its grave…the real world will always try to mold you into a puppet that works as per its master’s rules; only you can listen to your inner self, so it’s your duty to keep it alive…running away from the reality isn’t what a real artist does, rather he turns the harsh face of reality into a beautiful piece of art.’
I get lost in the thoughts induced by his words; suddenly a gruff voice brings me back to the present – ‘It’s time to close the park’; it’s the security guard.
I look to my right and find the seat next to me empty; I ask, ‘Did you see someone, maybe an old man leaving the park?’
He shakes his head in utter irritation.
Written by Chirasree, a dreamer for – SIX SENTENCE STORIES