"I'm a mere drop in this huge sea. I wonder, if I'm separated from it, would I still be a sea or just a part of it? Would my being be different from the sea if I ever go back to it? Am I the sea or a droplet?
These questions were running in my mind as I was surrounded by dark figures that kept crying and moaning about how cold it was. I noticed that even I was complaining, without my own will.
I think I'm dead. I always thought there must be a place after death for people like me—people who were kind enough to cry for strangers but not kind enough to struggle, change themselves, and take responsibility for others' tears.
I wondered if I could help any one of these figures. I kept trying to talk to them, but none of them seemed to hear me. Then I heard a sound. It was loud enough to make everyone fall to their knees and forget the cold for a few moments.
When I turned to the source of the sound, I saw a pillar rising from the ground. The pillar looked as if it was made from the night sky, and atop it, a barely visible figure was standing. As I kept looking at it, the pillar started moving toward me, pushing away all the dark figures that surrounded it. For some reason, it felt sad to see the figures get hurt."
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Why can’t I write when it matters? When there’s no pressure, words flood my mind to the point of irritation, but now, when I need them, they slip away like water. What’s the point of creativity if it fails when it’s most needed?
There’s no cohesive plot here. It’s just disjointed words and sentences, flipping between a third-rate introspective novel and some afterlife crisis fantasy. This might be the most meaningless thing I’ve ever written.
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What the fuck was the point of the metaphors I used? A pillar made of the night sky? What the fuck does that even mean? And those sea questions—what purpose do they even serve?
I saw him sentence someone to 150 years of skinning because their story wasn’t “original” enough. I don’t even want to imagine what he’ll do if he reads this pile of vomited words.
2 hours later
He’s coming. I can hear screams two rooms away. If he takes 30 minutes per room, he’ll be here before I’ve written anything meaningful.
1 hour later
He’s at my door. I’ve got nothing to show him. If I weren’t already dead, I’d choose death over whatever punishment he’s planning.
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ANDHAKA
4 hours earlier
Boredom and blood. That’s all my life is now. Every day feels the same. I was excited when I got the chance to judge people until the king returned from his little war, but I didn’t expect to get bored of fear and blood so quickly. I guess too much of anything is bad.
Every day feels like a copy of the last—the same stories, the same judgments, the same fear. Nothing stands out.
2 hours later
The screams are the same. You’d think, after all the effort I’ve put into inventing new ways to torture them, they’d at least try to scream differently. But no, they’re selfish. It’s always about their pain, their sadness.
What about me? Why don’t they pity me when I pity them so much? They’re so selfish. They have nothing left to lose, so why not make an effort to satisfy me? If they did, I might even visit them more often.
1 hour later
I feel... strange. I’ve never felt this way before. Is this what it feels like to vomit? I swear, I’ve never read anything so bad.
I make sure only the best writers have the privilege of crafting stories for me. From what I recall, this one was well-known on Earth, but now? This drivel wouldn’t pass among humans. Is he rebelling?
Is this mess some pathetic attempt at defiance? If so, it’s amusing—like a fly trying to kill a human. I’ll let him be. For now.
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Writer 1782718
Why did he just smile and leave? Was it so bad that it was good? Who am I kidding? He probably smiled because he’s imagining all the ways he is going to torture me.