the playwright.


“I am only a humble playwright, and this dusty stage is precious abode.
I write scripts and sometimes, songs, for plays and musicals for others to enjoy.
 
I am a humble playwright, no one notices me, maybe some have heard my name, but mostly I’m shroud in mystery, lost in oblivion. The actors and characters they act from my script but in the end of the play, when they give their humble bow, the applause goes to them not the one who wrote the story and the made the tunes and sounds.”
 
The playwright gave out a quiet sigh as he went back to his study to write more beautiful stories and arranged more beautiful songs, scripts he never include himself in, songs he never sang himself.
 
It’s ironic, how such a humble old thing could write such magnificent plays, yet, live in such a dull and mundane manner.
 
The playwright went by the pseudonym of ‘e’. not E but the humble ‘small letter’ – ‘e’.
 
e had live a very mundane life since young. He never got of his house to play, not because he didn’t want to but because his parents forbade him to do so, for reasons he never quite understood.
 
Soon e was accustomed to living indoors and playing indoors. His father bought him a set of blocks for his birthday and e played with blocks everyday. Although e hardly went out of the house on his own. e always followed his father in his car, e loved road trips across the country and it was through these road trips did e’s mind expand in experience and in imagination.
 
The sights, the sounds, the smell and even taste of being outside. e loved it and would re enact the road trips with the blocks he had at home. And that was how e began writing stories for plays, though e had never sat in a play before.
 
It was when e sat in his very first play did he fall in love with writing. The emotions, the mood, the unseen nuances, the plot, the actors and their ever evolving roles. Soon e became intoxicated with writing and though he had attended only a few plays, the stories that play in his mind are boundless. e had a great imagination, he didn’t need to sit in a play, you just need to tell him bits and bites of the story and soon an entire play is in motion in his mind.
 
e never really lived a beautiful life, though he felt it was quite comfortable already, the frequent fights his parents have gave him little comfort. but still e would continue to believe that beautiful things could manifest if one could just wait.
 
Maybe that is why e never wrote inconclusive tragedies, somehow no matter how tragic the story was, even when tears are rolling, the ending of the play would always result in a twist for the better. Somehow, e would make redemption the last thought on peoples’ minds before the curtain closes.

Just imagine Romeo finally reunited with Juliet in the afterlife, imagine Hamlet dodging Laertes blade. Imagine Othello never confronting Desdemona. Imagine Dr. Faustus repenting.
 
e was sure things would be made beautiful in its time.
 
but alas tragedy stuck, something happened that left e scarred in his heart.
 
poison filled e heart, and soon the stories e wrote became morbid, cold.
His songs turned sour and melodramatic. e became bitter and went “Que Sera Sera (What will be, shall be)”. e continued to write only to release the pain he experienced inside.
 
then came a ballerina, a beautiful dancer from one of e’s musicals.
 
her name was Linette, and no one knows how and when she appeared on stage, though it seemed as if she had been dancing on stage since forever.
 
though e became cold, and lost all joy for writing, somehow when he saw Linette dance, his heart started to feel again, it was romance that knocked gently to the heart of the playwright inviting itself to come in.
 
but e brushed the thoughts away, refusing entry to any feeling.
 
“I’ve fallen to far, became too bitter, harden my heart too much already. bah, humbug!” cried the broken playwright in bitterness.
 
but day by day, as e sat in his own plays, though still broken, he would sit in his own play just to catch a glimpse of the little ballerina dancing.
 
the playwright wouldn’t admit it. but somehow romance had managed to walk past the gates of his guarded heart.
 
although e was afraid he’ll never write something beautiful again, but Romance or what they call it ‘Love’ had other plans in mind.
 
slowly but surely did Love removed fear – the thorn in the festering wound of his heart. And with fear cast out, e’s heart began to heal.
 
and again, e began to write beautiful stories and songs again, this time, with romance playing with his pen.

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