The Balloon that Rose up from Sleep

One morning, as I woke up, I found my palms were empty. The lines had detached themselves from my palms. They were floating around in the different corners of the mid-air in my bedroom. Like strings lighter than the air. Like destiny trapped in a hydrogen filled balloon, covering the distance between the heaven and the hand.

That evening I told my father –

“Dad, you know what happened when I woke up this morning?”

My father smiled.

“Son, you’re insomniac. You haven’t woken up for centuries.”

Alter

Right from his early childhood, he has been appreciated for his capabalities to lie. All his lies were so intense that even when you’d know he’s lying, you’d persuade yourself that the entire world has been a lie. Nobody really cared for the truth anymore. “Truth is relative,” they’d say “but the liar is universal.”

He became a professional liar when he grew up. He lied with such mastery of the art that all his lies seemed interconnected. Juxtaposed. Existing as a parallel realm with the reality. Elusive than the real. The liberation.

The heavens found real competition in him: ‘The Great Lie’ wasn’t meant to have an alternative.