The Pseudo Identities of a Writer!

She could have managed alone, like she eventually did. But still, one does expect a sign of care from the person who claims to love her. She had no issues walking back alone through a secluded lane at an odd hour but it mattered to her whether that person would show concern for her safety, for it would have meant he considered her to be his as much as she wanted to be his. She was hardly bothered about her safety, nothing wrong could have possibly happened but it was HIS indifference to it which pricked her as it in a way signified a small defeat: she had failed to get him express concern for her well-being. However hard she may have tried convincing him that she can walk back herself, deep inside her heart she wanted him to care enough to not let her go, to accompany her till the end, if not bragging as a strong protector but maybe just to get more time to spend with her. She was unsuccessful in creating a want in him to be with her. She obviously wouldn’t have voiced it out, for it was something one shouldn’t be told about. Yes! She was just in one of her emotional high and the rush of emotions weren’t helping her be objective. It might appear inconsequential a thing if she would think back about it, but for the moment it made a huge difference what he would say. Finally walking back alone, she did feel a little childish expecting a trifling little thing from him and getting disappointed about such a trivial thing, but disappointment was disappointment.
She rushed back home and banged the door behind her. Hurried up to her bed, held her pillow close to her to hide the rolling tears from her eyes, before anybody else sees it. Only that soft delicate roll of cotton knew of her tears, the world has never seen her in her low. She managed to let out a small tear, feeling ridiculously juvenile all the while. She thought of it for a while as at that moment, she was able to sense the feeling she had towards it. A pragmatic that she is, more than just letting the feeling sink it, she started analyzing it, scrutinizing the feeling as to what was it that was making her feel so disheartened. The insignificance of the whole incident made her smile at herself but by then she had experienced too much of the emotion to let go of it. She wanted to make the emotion hers: to possess it in some way.
Her way of owning an emotion was writing about it, making a story of it. She immediately grabbed a pen and a paper (for she liked the conventional style of writing) and passionately started to write. Just as she was about to give a name to the character, she stopped; strangely so, for she had never halted in her flow when she decided to write. This time, she didn’t feel like giving a name to her character. She wanted this story to be in first person, not impersonated by a fictional being. Each emotion that she had strongly felt was always narrated to the world in the camouflage of a different world, a different person and never being her. Sometimes it was rather tedious giving superfluous details to make sure nobody knew the parable was in fact her own story. She loved sharing her experiences but felt awkward admitting them as hers and hated being questioned by people the reason she wrote it and what is it that she is feeling now. Because by the time she starts writing about it, she is already over the feeling, having probed over it for some time. Like mentioned earlier, she deeply believed in objectivity and took sentiments also rather hard-headedly. She was comfortable in her creative let-out by making it sound fictional. On one hand, because she had strongly lived through the feeling the story could be related to by many but then she would be spared of confessing it as her experience. She would usually be speechless when people glorified her writing, pondering how she could have possibly written about something so well, having not gone through it. She would just smile at them, thankful for them liking it and unsuspicious of it being real. But this time, she was tired of making it sound like an imagination, tired of living another incident of her life as an imaginary character. She wanted to face the questions thrown at her, answer them and get over it. After all, everybody experiences what she has/had. Like the funny imprudent expectation she had a little while ago, she was sure everybody had had it at least once however bleakly faint it would have been. What was so awkwardly embarrassing about having emotions? This time the story was going to be different, it would be truly hers, just the way she had lived it. She gave herself a self-assuring smile and began writing. A little later, she was seen dozing off beside the paper. A little closer look at the paper would have told you a story of a character, Samreen. She, the writer had again cowered to give her story away; she kept her identity to herself yet shared it with the whole world. She just could not put all her other stories at stake of revelation by admitting one to be a part of her life. She, again had lived the life of one of her many characters, this time of Samreen’s; ironically helpless because of her own fictioanal characters or more precisely by her own emotions.