The story not worth telling

(Reply to Daily Post’s prompt: 1984.)

That’s a pretty big secret to reveal to the world, your greatest fear. Giving someone that kind of power over you….may not be the best thing (ironically, writing this post itself would come under one of my fears; the fear of revealing fear. But it’s not my greatest fear).

Thankfully, my greatest fear is not tangible. So it’s not something someone can leverage over me. Nevertheless, if I were to be locked up in a room with this fear, the scene would be something like this…

It’s a dimly lit room, and is furnished in a slightly old-fashioned way. There’s a fire burning, and opposite to me, next to the fire is…me.
But this is a different me, from an alternate future. A future where I happened to live a life dictated strictly by the suffocating norms of Indian society. Of any society, really. This man, the other me, is balding and has lost the spark I believe I have in my eyes. The spark to achieve something. The spark that comes with the belief that my destiny is under my control. He has been subjected to the pressures of the people’s expectations around him, and he buckled. He sits there staring into the fire, imagining about what could have been, if only he had had the courage to oppose. That room, is his room. And he seems to be living a comfortable life. But I know who I am. And comfort, is not in my top priorities, in any future. It is a priority, but not the top.

I have written this before, and I’ll write this again. The most important thing in the world to me is the stories that I create. A life worth living is a story worth telling. And a conventional life, is not a story worth telling.

This is my biggest fear: that I created a story that even I am not happy to share, even with myself. A life, lived not on my terms. A story not worth telling.

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