Author’s note

The cynic and the happy fool

Words inspire words, inspire words. And somewhere in this circuitous route that strives to take us back to where it all began, we tend to lose one of two things. The words may lie in corners preferring to fade into the two dimensional humility of pages. Or inspiration- that prodigal son- sucks the agony and the ecstasy out of us, to leave us with nothing, to return with nothing.

It is for the happy fool and not the cynic to take a trip to the museum. For the fool will wonder and marvel at every crack and chip in every artifice, worship every layer of dirt and come away speechless at perfection. But the cynic will shake his head over imagined flaws, grumble at destructive missiles darting about in their school uniforms, glare at glass panels, and come away nodding in agreement with his own dusty ideology.

Sometimes it takes but an afternoon of introspection and a flash of humour from the calm eye of a brown dog to discover the happy fool, masquerading in the suit and polished shoes of the cynic.

This is the story of a girl who, much like her words, preferred to hide in the stale shadows of corners. The curious concentrics of time shifted often, like quirky sands. From joy to sorrow, from success to failure, from love to its shattered remains. From trust to mistrust. From innocence to betrayal to cynicism to sense, and back again. Much like every other concentric of time in every other life.


In realisation of this simple fact, I present, Memorise my number. And I have only the flashes of humour from the brown dog to thank.