An autobiography - story of a story teller

A good story is just a whisker away from the bad one, he thinks.When he was a kid, he loved playing with words. He aspired to be an author. Painting pictures through web of words. Eloquent brevity was his motto. To show an ocean in a drop. He would sit for hours near a crook. The calm placid water would inspire him of raging battle of treachery, deception, betrayal. A burning log would remind him of gentle warm love stories. Simple people falling in love. And, their lives were'nt simple anymore. A treacherous, twisting pathway leading to a quicksand would remind him of a simple, uncomplicated story of a child growing up. Opposite values. Sometimes, he would just pick up a landscape picture with trees, a river, a mountain and a lonely bird. His words would morph the picture into a middle-class family caught in a timeless freeze.The mountain being the grandparents,the trees the parents etc... Sometimes, he would connect events that happen in a single time instant across large distances to illustrate the grand scheme of things. And, sometimes he would tell a story back and forth to illustrate things need not make sense in the direction of time.

One bright afternoon, he was kneeling beside the lake. He caught the bright reflection of the sun and an old smiling face looking back at him. He had never seen his own in a long time. He sat there over hours, recollecting his long lost thoughts and he began writing an old story, his own story.Once upon a time...