I am a ghost house filled with empty words. Too many of them trying hard to escape the biological field that mashes them up in a futile attempt to make sense.

The unattractive ghost house stands in the banks of a cemetery were Templars rest in peace forever. The cemetery went down years ago and there stands a G20 school committed to raising this species into well groomed hogwarts.

The house assimilated each and every word that passed by it. It never bothered to paint a meaning to the words. He expected a femme ariste who will walk into his life someday and paint his walls all red.

Red and black for he never wanted to be called anything other than a ghost house.

He never found her.

Once love asked him how he made such beautifully repugnant noises when he is just a ghost house filled with empty words.

He replied:

“Once in a while, an heavy pebble will be shot from the Doom school beside me. It would invariably break one of my murky window panes. Then it would hit the floor, only to be ricocheted towards the oblique staircases that wounded till eternity.

Each step had a unique number and they would hit different steps every time. They would form different sequences every time they made their way down the ghats.

The sequences would go like 1, 5, 12, 22 … or 1, 2, 4, 7, 11 … or 1, 1, 2, 5, 14, 42 .. . or even straight to 15, 34, 65, 111, …

I still remember the fruitful day when they hit 1, 1, 2, 3, 5 and so on and on. That’s when the honey bees came through the doorknobs. They stayed.

Each sequence made distinct ripples in the house. The sound waves travelling crisscross my expanse fought with each other and made love in no particular order. They combined to form ‘Chipparastiaks’, my soul in pieces.

When I can’t hold them anymore, they left me in spurts of toytown mushroom clouds through my dilapidated chimneys.

Humans misconstrued them for words. Words carrying life and death while they are nothing but the rejects of my distorted reality constantly churning itself to find a meaning for existence.”

That’s how I wrote the most poignant dramas I could hatch.

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Chipparastiaks has to create a love letter now. Under the maple tree, I removed the glasses and started looking at the eyes of love, only to be greeted with a question which I can’t answer.

Is the bowl empty or is it filled with Moonlight?