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Dec 2018
this is a story of a 17-something boy
who left his home, his parents,
his friends, his town with a backpack that
contained two shirts, a few dollar bills,
his diary, a pen, and his battered copy of
Love in the Time of Cholera, he fancied
himself a writer, β€œI write fiction”, he told
his friends who thought of him as
pretentious and pompous, the first piece
he ever wrote was a poem,
an unstructured and ill-rhymed one,
he was one of those with a pretty face,
a cheeky attitude that has given up
on god and was disdainfully aloof,
the first night away from home in
a new city, he slept in the bench of
a parking lot next to a homeless man
who stank of *****, cigarettes and
cheap whiskey, he had spent all the money
he had on train ticket and a water bottle,
the next morning, he woke up with
massive hunger pangs, at the time of
such suffering, there was only
one thing he wanted to do – he took out
his diary and wrote on hunger, despair,
and the prospect of never making it,
it was achingly poetic.
Simra Sadaf
Written by
Simra Sadaf  22/F/India
(22/F/India)   
186
 
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