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Stories that got lost

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It came to me when I was having an early dinner. It goes like this:


My muse visited me last night. ("How did you know that was your muse?", "Two words. Proper introduction.")

"What do you have that you can prove your existence?"

I thought hard and long. I have a family, friends and strangers who brush against me and then forget to testify about my existence. But if I don't exist, their existence too is in doubt. (Which makes my muse non-existential on the top of imaginary, which in turn nullified the question. But then, that too doesn't matter.)

I had a book in my hand, that contains the stories that have been written by me. I handed it over to her as a proof of my existence.




Did she read the book? Did she found it bland? She couldn't comprehend my stories. Was I narcissistic about it? Beats me. I should have recorded my thoughts.

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