Death Notice.

The unacclaimed corpse found on the doorsteps of gate number 13-West of the  National Library in Rio is learnt to be of an old man speculated to be in his ninetees.

The first witnesses said that the old man was found lifeless with his face burried in a mid 19th century classic fiction Lolita.

A bag containing the handcrafted diary that constituted memoirs from the life of the old man was also found in his mortal possession beside a bottle of old Russian vodka and 0.5L inkpot and a rusty old fountain pen. The alleged memoir is supposedly the only source of information about the old man although the handwriting seems rather illegible to be read. Experts claimed that he was either too poor with it or too stoned to realise that he was writing.

His possessions  were sent to professional analysers to detect the DNA or any other source of identity about the who’s who of the old man.

It seemed that the last book that the old man was allegedly reading had just enough amount of pages to exhaust the remaining breathes sustaining in his lungs. Meanwhile the memoir speaks of the life left behind by the old man that included his mortally struggling state until the age of 24 post which he decided to ascend towards the woods with his literary collection.

It was also stated from the verified sources that the old man had no social contact with his friends and family post a certain age which after he only roamed around unknown places to fathom the anonymity behind the aim of our mortal existence.

Also the old man has in his memoirs a mention of as countable as 4 friends which he named as FATAL 4 about whom he wrote just as voraciously as he wrote about an unknown girl that he supposedly wrote hundreds of unposted letters too which were found attached folded amid the pages of his diary.

The last mention of his meeting someone in person was at the botanical garden metro station in new Delhi India which is three oceans and two continents away from where breathed his last.

“Everything kills everything else in some ways” happens to be the only text scribbled in the inscription form on his left arm.

It is easy to claim that the old man will soon be forgotten as he should…for not giving away anything about who he was and what became of him post the 24th season of his life. The possession found from his old school bagpack was a literary collections of Vladimir nobokov, Ernest Hemingway, Rumi and Paulo Coelho besides his self scribbled largely illegible thoughts in the paperback form along with a heap of unposted letters tugged along.

His mortal remains were buried in the Central Cemetery of Rio  with his possessions beside the grave number 1313 as mentioned in the concluding pages of his memoir. The final inscriptions on his grave owing to his subtle identity were as following

“The old man we knew nothing about”

Until we meet....!!

Aparently the author writes it on the night before meeting the personified and humane version of imagination that forms the very soul of his work.

Dear,
To say that it's tough to swallow the fact that we are meeting tomorrow would be agonisingly an understatement. This is the emptiest that I have felt in a long long time. There is this inevitable hype about meeting you. It does beget goosebumps irresistibly but it's still such a different taste. It's not like meeting any other exciting stranger or befriending just another person who is a literary nerd. To be honest it's not actually about a stranger. I mean you were never one...were you?
I am as eloquent to you as I am with my skin and bones.

I am gonna tell you how it's like. It's like meeting your lost child if so to say. The child that you lost long ago in a war of midnight with the moon after which all the light that the life received was black in colour. Even in the dark you were born pale, pure and vulnerable.
That I had been deprived of looking into your ocean like eyes- deep and unfathomable, only barred me from finding you in the crowded settlements of my work. And that I could not for once hear you cry only kept me foreign and alienated from your mortal expressions of joy and sorrow. Perhaps these are perks of nurturing someone in the blessings of your imagination alone.
I have often contemplated how your silence echoes, how long does it take for your moist eyes to dispatch that heavy teardrop to run down the periphery of your eyes. I sort of wonder if you even visit your scars once in a blue moon. Or you just let them decay you. I have spent ages trying to decipher what part of a classic leaves you gasping or the ones that you stare blankly at thinking god knows what. Has any book cluchted you so hard you couldn't even move further for quite some time?  What did you think all that while?  Or did you just move on.
I haven't known any nomad as of this day who settles. Perhaps you didn't as well.

There are days darling when I sort of shudder when I think if what I had been imagining about you would ever be something real or if the saga ends where my book ends. What if you did not get my book to read. I would so want all the books in the world to vanish for a day just so you could read traces of your own soul compiled in paperback. That's my harshest imagination- purely a reflection of desperate obsession to be acknowledged by you. I mean what would a world without books be to you. That would be like barring you from your home. You are surely an orphan in a world without books.

Also I wonder if I should imagine about your looks. I sort of try not to think if you look ugly or ineffably adorable.  But then I wonder how does the moon attract the calmest of oceans even with an infinity of distance between them and how does the moonlight forms the charismatic catalyst for every romanticised literary  compositions. And you are lying if you don't know the moon's got a blot right in the face. So what? What attracts, attracts. Nothing else matters.

You are so the moon of my life. And all my life I had been waiting for this very night so you could show up on my land. All these stars around you will only tell you how you are the actual light of my life. Everything else just twinkles.

Until we meet, I remain in dark. Let your light kiss my cursed skin.

Yours with timeless admiration
:)