Post by account_disabled on Dec 9, 2023 22:26:55 GMT -6
But they still remain unread. Until one day he arrives in a land of other writers, people who like him write stories and who, unlike him, show them to others. People who are not afraid to say "I write", people who like him dream of publishing books, but who, unlike him, at least try. People who have taken the plunge. Who jumped to the other side, regardless of the abyss, the unknown, the absolute darkness. And he, the shy writer, watches them from a distance, safe behind the yellow line just before the abyss.
He greets them from afar, sees them talking to each other, but none of them look towards him, because he is only a shadow, he has no consistency, no substance. It's just a daydream, which Phone Number Data disappears in the morning without a trace. The shy writer goes home and rereads his dusty stories. He relives the dreams of published books and now, as if by magic, those dreams have lost details, are increasingly hazy, incomprehensible. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot fully relive that dream experience. He wonders why, but no one has an answer, because no one knows that he writes stories. Thus he returns to the land of writers, sees them talking to each other, laughing, exchanging advice and opinions.
They all have a story in their hands, but it's not theirs, the one they wrote, it's someone else's story. The shy writer also imagines himself with a story that is not his in his hands and, above all, with his story in the hands of someone else. Look at the yellow line, it's getting closer. Emptiness is just a few steps away and, beyond, the land of writers. He thinks back to his unread stories, his diluted dreams. He sees someone notice him, whisper, point him out to others. Now they are all attentive to his moves, their eyes turned towards him, waiting for the decision. The shy writer knows he has to do something. He knows he has to choose. And he knows that once he makes his decision, he can't go back.
He greets them from afar, sees them talking to each other, but none of them look towards him, because he is only a shadow, he has no consistency, no substance. It's just a daydream, which Phone Number Data disappears in the morning without a trace. The shy writer goes home and rereads his dusty stories. He relives the dreams of published books and now, as if by magic, those dreams have lost details, are increasingly hazy, incomprehensible. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot fully relive that dream experience. He wonders why, but no one has an answer, because no one knows that he writes stories. Thus he returns to the land of writers, sees them talking to each other, laughing, exchanging advice and opinions.
They all have a story in their hands, but it's not theirs, the one they wrote, it's someone else's story. The shy writer also imagines himself with a story that is not his in his hands and, above all, with his story in the hands of someone else. Look at the yellow line, it's getting closer. Emptiness is just a few steps away and, beyond, the land of writers. He thinks back to his unread stories, his diluted dreams. He sees someone notice him, whisper, point him out to others. Now they are all attentive to his moves, their eyes turned towards him, waiting for the decision. The shy writer knows he has to do something. He knows he has to choose. And he knows that once he makes his decision, he can't go back.