Graveyard of ghosts

It’s true what they say – when you leave an act undone, it takes the shape of a ghost to haunt you. It lives inside you and you become its graveyard.

His fingers laid the pen down. Cracking his knuckles, he stretched his arms over his head. He looked down at the body of material that was beginning to breathe. He felt like it was staring at him, as if asking for help. He leaned forward and read. His lips curved skewed with delight.
He picked up the paper from his table and focused his gaze on it for sometime, holding it straight in front of his eyes. Following each word carefully, and stringing them into sentences, “Ghost” he said aloud, almost like an announcement. Placing the paper down again he scribbled the title “Ghost” on it.

He got up swiftly and latched his door. Bending down, he picked up a black folder labelled “casket”. He named it so for two reasons – one, he knew that once he deposits a body of written material in it, it would be tucked away from others’ sight forever. He was the only person who knew of their existence. Two, whenever he opened it, he could smell the rotting flesh and soul of his ideas. He felt it was only apt to name it “casket”. He often called himself a graveyard for harbouring ghosts. Ghosts of dead ideas.

As he laid down a fresh body of paper, he picked up an old one dated 16 December 2016, titled ‘5 Men and their Fear’. He read the paper carefully, smiled, and placed it down. “Good work, Sir”, he told himself with an appreciating nod. “Ahh! Thank you”, he replied playfully. “Well, you see…”, he began to explain the theme of the piece to himself, as if he was addressing a fan of his work, when he heard a knock on his door.

“Haan, coming.” He pushed his chair back and placed the casket below in its rightful place, away from prying eyes.

“Can you please chop some onions?”, a friend asked him as he walked out of his room. As he chopped away swiftly, he heard his friends exchange views about the current political scenario. Thousands of arguments and numerous revolutionary ideas took birth in his mind. Yet he buried them within. Upon being nudged he said, “Well, I know how to chop onions like no one does.” An awkward smile followed the statement. Deep down he wished he had the courage to share his views. He wished he wasn’t in constant fear of being mocked or being tagged as an “ignorant”.

Night crept steadily and he lay down on his bed. Feeling extremely uneasy and restless, he braced himself for what would come next. He could feel his ideas buried deep inside tossing around and turning into ghosts. He could feel every gash and tearing of flesh from within. His breath stopped momentarily. He couldn’t see anything but could still hear. He knew they were the ghosts of his ideas.
“Don’t be a graveyard. Let us out, set us free and you’ll see something wonderful bloom.” He jumped out of his bed at once and inked his thoughts onto a piece of paper and titled it “A Graveyard of Flowers”. There would be no room for ghosts now, no caskets. Only him and fearless thoughts, alive and breathing.