My words they don’t speak to me anymore…They have gone silent.
I tried to write a monologue and ended up with a paraphrased well-rehearsed dialogue where it was me my pen a barren thoughtless ambitionless dire dread sunken low endless void sheet of paper a truce I was determined to extract a reunion of me and the words a paraphrased well-rehearsed melody.
I’ll call my new testament a revelation yet again the door was shut a creek on the bolts and a sudden jolt as all that was left was a seer clear serene vacuum devoid of light sound hope dreams and the desire to get up…I was paralyzed my hands were trembling my pen aching to move an inch, to explore the great run of meadows some description of waves mountains the wind playing with your hair a cuddle under a moonlight cigarette after ages few stanzas about the windows the first ray of sun and all the words that rhyme, my pen aching to move an inch succumbed to the wounds of fantasy a café with the red door and a table peering all that you have ever craved all you have ever desired with a shot of espresso blended with your greed and roasted enough to tell you that it’s a dream and whatever you do wherever you go whatever you’ll witness and all you’ll ever experience will be nothing more than a fleeting memory a memory that you were never part of.
And again I couldn’t write…My words they don’t speak to me anymore…They have gone silent.
Do you remember me? Do you remember all that’s left to remember all that’s all and all at the brink of all, all when you thought you had all and all from all the alls you thought will never matter in this journey of alls and the all’s I kept of giving and all the all’s I was deprived to receive? An all-in between all the alls…Do you Remember? I stepped into the café with the red door, and the air within felt thick, weighted as if time itself was holding its breath. The bell above the door jingled softly, but there was no echo, no reverberation. It was as though sound and space were unsure of their own existence here.
A musty smell of old paper and forgotten dreams curled in the air. The café was empty, save for a single table near the far wall. The wood of the table looked ancient, scratched and worn, but polished by years of hands that had touched it—desperate hands, idle hands, hands that knew both creation and failure. The chair opposite was a sturdy thing, its legs creaking under the weight of its own history, yet somehow inviting, as if it had been waiting for me.
The red door behind me seemed to pulse with a subtle urgency as if trying to tell me something—but I wasn’t sure what. The walls, painted in a shade of faded ruby smelled like rosemary. It felt as if time itself was held captive in this space, and I, along with it, was suspended.
I sat down slowly, the air around me still thick with unspoken words. A soft hiss broke the silence. The snake with the red mouth slithered from beneath the table, its eyes glowing faintly, the scales catching a shimmer of light that wasn’t quite there.
“Welcome back,” it said, its voice soft but rasping. “The door was waiting for you.”
I looked around. There were no other patrons. No barista behind the counter. Only the faint ticking of an old clock, its hands moving in half circles, as though reluctant to finish the sweep of time.
I swallowed, trying to steady my breath. “What is this place? What do you serve here?”
The snake tilted its head, amused. “Ah, you don’t know? We serve what you need most—your longing. But you must be careful. The longing here is never fully satisfied.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
The snake slithered closer, curling around the chair opposite me, its red mouth glistening as it spoke. “In this café, you can order anything—anything at all. But there’s a catch: You only get what you think you need, what you believe you want. The rest… it slips away, lost in time, like a sentence you never quite finish.”
I glanced at the table again, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I saw a steaming cup of coffee appear, placed delicately before me. It was rich and dark, with an almost otherworldly scent—an aroma of faraway places, of forgotten roads, of dreams half-remembered.
But as quickly as it had appeared, the cup vanished, just like that. The empty space on the table seemed to mock me.
I felt the weight of the snake’s gaze. “You see, in this café, nothing is real and everything is real at once. You can order a perfect day, a perfect moment, a perfect word. But none of it will ever exist outside this room. You can write the perfect line, but it will never be read. You can touch the softest winds of your past, but you will never breathe them again.”
I stared at the empty table, feeling the cold air pressing against me, feeling the words slip further away. But still, I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t pull myself away from this place, this hollow sanctuary of promises unkept.
“You said I could order anything,” I said, a tremor in my voice. “I want to write. I want to feel the words again.”
The snake chuckled softly, its tongue flicking. “Ah, yes. A writer’s most desperate desire: to write something that matters. But understand this: Here, you can write anything. You can fill this page with beauty and meaning, but the moment you leave, it will disappear. It will never have existed. No one will ever read it. The page will remain blank, even though you filled it.”
I clenched my fists, a strange pressure building in my chest. “Then what’s the point? Why would anyone come here if everything they do is destined to vanish?”
The snake’s eyes gleamed, a flicker of understanding passing through them. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? The act of writing, the act of creation—it’s never about the result. It’s always about the doing. The process. The journey, not the destination. Here, you can reach out to everything you’ve ever dreamed of, and it will slip through your fingers—but it will shape you, mold you, just the same.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and final. But as I listened, something began to shift. The pressure in my chest loosened. It wasn’t the creation that mattered. It wasn’t the end result, the final draft, the perfect line of prose. It was the act of reaching for it. Of trying, failing, and trying again.
“Maybe… maybe that’s enough,” I murmured to myself.
The snake curled around the chair, its body warm against the cool air. “Yes,” it whispered, “Maybe that is enough.”
And then I wrote:
“My words they don’t speak to me anymore…They have gone silent.
I tried to write a monologue and ended up with a paraphrased well-rehearsed dialogue where it was me my pen a barren thoughtless ambitionless dire dread sunken low endless void sheet of paper a truce I was determined to extract a reunion of me and the words.”
By: Kshitij Sinha
18/11/2024