Reading the reader

The nib strides on the paper as I write these lines. Sometimes it stutters like me and otherwise it flows like a song I memorized in school. Likewise the pen dances on paper making occasional long jumps to the floor beneath or just brisk walks and leaves a space between its steps. As the writer coughs and takes a pause, realisation hits him that he had written nothing informative till now. No story. No poem. Forget it he hasn’t even introduced himself to the reader. The reader, an unusual but quite predictable creature, is currently reading this void prose while gliding his eyes along the footprints of the pen. He has many other thoughts in mind. A reader is a person who while reading this particular line narrates it to himself in his head. His voice echoing these exact words in his brain. The reader, raises his eyebrows while imagining the connection he feels with an instance depicted in a story is the same reader who yawns shamelessly when he can’t go with the writers flow.

I’m talking to you. Dear reader. Yes you! You don’t need to raise your eyebrows. I’ve seen enough of them while you were yawning. I don’t know you. I’m stuck in this space. The pen is my master and the ink is my god. I’m a slave just like you.A slave of existence. You too shall join me here in the form of a note, an invitation, an obituary or maybe a biography. Although for a while now you and I are on the same page, while you read me I read you. None of us can tell what we read exactly. I’m far away from you, in a time and space alien to you. It were these couple of lines that converged our existence. Reality was subjective and we both will cease to exist after this line.

We are Dead.

Now.