I closed my eyes gently. The night sky gazed upon my dear soul. Indeed, if it wasn't for the noise around me, I would have floated into the aery land that lay untouched by human flesh and feet.

The rain poured down. It was another one of those evenings. I could hear the light chatter of the women at the counter and the joyous bellowing of the husbandmen on their seats and out. It was indeed one of those dear nights.

Nevertheless, I had no complacency to give my existence off to such heedlessness of being.

I picked up my cup of tea as I strolled down the parking lane.

It was but a magnificent experience to have my hair feeling fresh and clean.

I didn't want to leave home like this, but I had to; the rain was too strong for me not to have danced in it a little.

I imagined myself dancing more gracefully than the songs could ever rhyme about. I was intentionally refreshing myself.

I came back home with a smile on my face. I was happy. The world looked happy. I felt peace.

What was I obligated to do to make the world a better place? Was I obligated to donate money for trees to be planted across the globe? Was I obligated to spend my time in politics as much as my mom does wherever she goes? I didn't want to be oblivious.

But I wanted to feel the serenity in the flowers, the leaves, the trees, and the sky. I was worried I'd forget all these things and get sucked in into work. But I found a way to make it happen; feeling good while working.

I decided to be a writer. Why? Well, here was the reason: If it wasn't for the fact that there had been people supporting me throughout these years through small talks of encouragement, I wouldn't have ever been passionate about my work.

Helping others experience hope is the best thing in the world. I used to think helping others was all about being happy all the time, but that wasn't it.

It was more on connecting with the reader's/listener's inner feelings and working from there. That's what I learned from the countless stories on humanity's fears, tragedies, betrayals, joy, and apathy.

It was all a part of the inner world I formed for myself. This 'writing' thing.

I stood up from my seat, left the row, and proceeded to exit the bus. It was a beautiful day of fulfillment: seeing my friends' cheers in the restaurants we've been in was delightful.

I couldn't bear to hold it in any longer. I had to sit down and write. I loved being outside: the serenity and all its beauty. But my inner world had so much more to tell.

Fantasy. Was it a good idea to write fantasy? I meditated for a minute to see how much longer I could hold in my creative bursts.

Dragons. Dragons could be a magnificent topic of interest in my next book.

What did my imagination hold for us all today?

Indeed, dragons could be the inner workings of the fantasy world I would build tonight. The stories of old sounded cliche. What I meant was, "We could get a whole new meaning out of this common topic."

Without dragons, this fictional world would fall under the weight of a magical intensity, a singularity. If not for the fact that they were worshiped by most and comprehended by all, Mishmael, the main character of this story, wouldn't have studied the dragons and their glorious reign.

Mishmael left the books he read disregarded when it came to the extremity of their reckless belief in the divinity of these giant creatures.

By width and height, the creature, called a "Dragonos" in some languages, exceeded that of a blue whale by 40 feet in width and 30 feet in height.

A Dragonos' death was never once recorded in the books of the priesthoods, because either they were immortal or their way or place of death was inconspicuous.

"Yes, that could be the only way," said Mishmael. "I needed to know. And fast."

Mishmael picked up his cartographic data on the supposed sightings of the Dragonoir, the plural form of dragon. He traveled along a long scope of a thousand acres to an intertwined connection of rumors passed down by the local family name, Areias.

I fully inhabited Mishmael's world and existed as a particular character.

I entered the inn owned by one of their "imparters", Jilius Wikensis, another common name.

I invited him to take a seat by me after revealing my desire to pay. He did arrive, with a note, saying: "Better read that, 'cause that's the last juice you'll get from me. Jakiam Formelia."

I looked up. He had already gone back to his office. He knew my name?

The words don't really make sense; some kind of an ancient dialect I've never seen?

I a—

Oh, look at the time! It's eleven o'clock: time for bedtime! I jumped onto the soft caressing cotton mattress and slept undisturbed.

Laying down in bed won't get me anywhere. Time for a bath!

I closed my eyes to hear the quiet chatter of the wide intersection in a town of the fictional world that came to mind this very moment.

It was mechanical, quintessentially steampunk, and flavored with burnt sienna. One delightful trait would be its humanoid races: dwarves, rats, halflings, and giants.

The world could never get any darker with a divine lord, called the Enathanos, controlling the mountain range of Saffron-color-lighted bungalows all around.

The divine lord had been known to let workers die without a chance if they ever mistook their selves as enough against his mighty image.

Okay, that was enough for morning daydreaming. I got to get to work.

Going outside from my apartment was like a short role-play adventure to me, except you knew where to go. And even after it ended, it felt like an open-world game where you could choose your adventures and go on neverending trips with different backstories to everything. It sounded amazing for game-starters.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

I browsed through the net for entertainment for a while until I reached an article in the form of a video concerning planting trees and encouraging the moving out of citizens of major cities to add up the declining populations of countless rural towns. Maybe I could make do with that? No matter, I was trying to make a living here. Well, the kind of living that gave me peace.

I arrived at the destination very much unhappy about the dates very much unaligned with my schedule of writing. Consequently, I decided to stop trying to do it myself, and, instead, donate to the organizations set up to support these kinds of things. It ended up well for me.

When it came to my readers' reactions to my stories, I talked with them concerning their opinions, thoughts, and questions to my stories and writing as a whole.

Many had had problems with overcomplicating stories and making it sound too far-fetched.

But that was why I find ways to make their individual style of writing smooth. I really didn't plan on intruding into their lifestyle of writing, but maybe helping them put it out in such a way that didn't "scare" their readers away but invited them would help them feel better about letting it out.

Storytelling didn't end here. What ended was my momentum, and that was what I need to continue if I wanted to write. That also went for them I believe.

In all practicality, I struggled to find a good way to write efficiently, especially when I felt there were too many distractions coming in my way. I researched on the many perspectives and ways to make sure I didn't lose myself. I concluded my writing setup with a laptop, a writing app, dark mode, typewriter sound, quiet or silent atmosphere, a few entertainment to make me feel indebted to write, and writing as meditation.

That felt good writing that down now since I began that routine many years ago. I did not count my books, because I did not let my soul linger in a short moment in the past when I could move on and create more beautifully carved moments as it was.

Hypenated words always caught my attention when I wrote. They felt good to the heart when put as a striking point of a paragraph.

I also feared reading a massive monster of a paragraph, especially when its words counted up to 200. I didn't know if it was only me, but paragraphs joining in one-sentence or two-sentence softened my heart.

Whatever I just said came quite naturally, but sometimes saying the words out loud helped to add the realization of character, personality and individuality to perspective whilst writing.

Returning to reality, I picked up a couple of clothes straight from the dryer. I didn't always change, but when I did, I wore it as long as I felt good in it. Whatsoever, I took a shower one to two times a day depending on how dirty I felt. Of course, I left out using shampoo and instead use hair oil most of the time to maintain the healthy look. I didn't want to have an itchy face all the time, so I tended to shower only when I did get itchy.

I awoke to myself whispering a couple of lines from a song I spontaneously made up at the moment. Ever since I was young, I naturally loved spontaneous story-telling and song-writing. I liked the way that my heart jumped when I flowed with it when I was myself.

I didn't say this, but my relationships go down to simple talks on the internet. I didn't necessarily need the physical comfort of a romantic partner or friend for that matter, at all.

I asked several readers about this way of thinking recently, but they all commented, "You're just a loner type, that's all." Although some had noted, "You could possibly be a schizoid if not for the fact that you're happy with life."

I was happy having people giving me opinions. I liked community, not intimate relationships, but that was fine.

4 months ago . . . .

Now, the world was heading on to a new age—the E-book Age. Well, that name was only for current writers and aspiring ones, but technology was really changing.

Writing on laptops and mobile devices since my childhood had really helped me transfer my stories to e-book form. I had no desire to return to printed books seeing the statistics blazing on the internet.

I left my name written as "Jayce Verons", a name I adopted three years ago from a dream I had.

"Enough backstory, let's get back to business."

As I was saying, the world was changing, so I was worried I might leave my stories paper-stuck when I could share my books globally without a problem. After all, easy access was great for marketing.

"Oh, look at that!" The first book I reuploaded, now on the internet, got tons of reviews. Well, in this sense, it was more "comments" than actual expert reviews.

I acknowledged their intense support on the product since this website could cater to chatting with audiences of diverse whereabouts. Diversity was an amazing property.

I wonder how my ex-editor was doing? I hope he found a great replacement or something. Maybe it was a good idea for him to change jobs? "I'll let him know if I have something."

Returning to the present . . .

My first manga was upvoted by a veteran in the comics community! I didn't want to act oblivious to the fact that having the creativity to express before having the know-how was frustrating.

I would like to continue onward to the future! Sounded cliche, I knew.

Oh, yeah. My ex-editor now handled all the blah-blah, papers, and uploading stuff. I lazed around the whole day feeding him money as motivation. "Oh, he'll read this, won't he?"

Jokes aside, it is a good idea for me to give a good look at myself and readjust my complacent attitude... "Let's write a horror novel!

"What should I write in horror?"

I listened to some horror vibes, watched a couple of horror gameplays, comics, and so forth. It was terrifying at first, but I had gotten used to it a little. Very little bittle skittle nittle wit—they still got me. I was trying though!

Okay, we had a lady in black. So cliche.

How about a lady in white? So cliche.

How about a monster with no eyes and arms and legs and body and everything? An invisible monster? So cliche.

Okay. How about... a tragedy-horror story? So cli—Wait. Actually, that might work.

Japanese-style?

Nah, more like "your" style.

Wait, was I talking to myself on paper?

Yes, you are. Glad you noticed.

Oh shi—sheath of a sword!

Yep. So get back to work!

Oh, right, right.

I finished it. It spoke of a mentally ill family struggling to maintain the peace when they hated their blatant differences in "personality". They wished one didn't care so much about being the center of attention, one not so cold and uncaring, another so unmotivated and suicidal.

It ended with them having their distorted way in life. The thriller of being chased by a psychopath. The apathy of hanging out with a "loser". The injustice of everyone not appreciating her because she deserved it all.

They ended up losing themselves once all their symptoms reached their peak.

The story concluded with a few of them dying to various causes, some disappearing, some seeking help in therapy. This focused on a family of 8, including the mother and father.

Scary? Scary, I knew.

I discovered this streaming website, called "Opaque", where fellow gamers, vlogs, talk hosts, and musicians collided. I decided to try it out for myself. Maybe I could write or draw and have ambience music playing to entertain my watchers.

It was nice having a live audience constantly on you, either appreciating the serenity or observing how a person like me did things.

"You know what they say: 'Never let your childlike curiosity die—ever seeking and ever growing.'"

Did exercise programs ever work? I couldn't even go on for an hour without resting for the next 3 days. I had a lean, but not muscular body by the way.

In the same vein, I researched on how to chase after various goals simultaneously. What I learned from self-care enthusiasts is this: the removal of certain things that satisfied me but didn't give me peace. Instead, the sourcing of satisfaction from goals that gave me that peace I lacked.

Practically, I cut down on sugar and caffeine. "Fapstronauts", "no-fap" powerhouses or individuals who determined and abstained from masturbation and porn, had inspired me to do the same.

Energy. I'll tell you one thing: "Energy is now my inner name." Over the course of a month, the stress I used to relieve using whatever that wasn't self-care were now being relieved through writing, drawing, going to gym, and meditation. I could withstand say the inconsistency I had long ago had disappeared.

After all that, I returned to my drastically improved day-to-day life.

I owned it up to myself to explore different "telltales" of reality, whether sorrowful or acclaiming.

Music was one thing I neglected, and I didn't want to leave it laying there pictured like a broken guitar that used to play so fervently.

I connected with a few music artists to see how it would go down. I disliked having to speak bothered existentially, so I gave myself space to prepare for it.

From there on, everyday was been amazing, but I don't wish to break my unspoken promise of embracing the deathly gallows. One's experience was never to be isolated but studied, learned from, and hoped from. That was—I wish—my life's work to be.