‘The tale must go on,’ she whispered. But the party returned their face to listen. Her whisper had a power to order, apparently. People barely listened to her when she talked. But they heard quite well when she whispered.
‘It’s rather a happy one. It is not like the ones you hate.’ She took a moment for herself. ‘How does the world taste? The real one?’ She posed hoping someone would interfere. The room went quiet. ‘It’s bitter, I must say. If there was anyway a person can taste the world, it would be through reality. Teasing it. Tempting it. Or putting an end to it. In any way, it’s unbecoming. The taste I mean. It wrecks the build of your entity for it falters whatever resilience you build to maintain your end.’
‘I thought this was supposed to be a happy tale,’ she heard a whisper.
‘What makes a story a happy one? The beginning or the end?’ She looked in the direction of the whisper. No one peeped.
‘Tempting a reality is perhaps a valiant action,’ she went on. ‘to the point where reality takes over and haunt us back. Losing yourself, your temper, your patience over the hauling existence but not something that can be captivated is perhaps a conundrum one has to suffer from. In life, losing a thing or two, that truly means dear to you is a lesson. And of course a taste of the real world. The first time I lost something of my own, I felt…well words fail, don’t they?! If it was a taste I must describe, I would say it was bitter. And I thought it would kill me. I thought that was a taste of poison. But poison is not always dreary, is it? I didn’t suck out of the poison, nonetheless. Not late, nor early. I sunk into it to have the real taste of it.’
‘Why would one whine and threaten?
For a life that thoroughly thorn?
One must not cry nor pity
The loving existence of one’s folly.
One rather must endure the taste,
To forlorn the worst,
To accept the best.’
‘For the worst of a taste, we see the eye of reality. Perhaps, a god of all. For the bane of our existence, we might even find something sweet. The thing they call love.’ And she walked away for she cannot see the face of her subjects. The subjects of her story, that it.
Rants of the Absurdist
Unabridged Manuscripts 
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