Jumping from one book to the next, now moving and now still, now looking at the window looking at the desk. What a strange period are free afternoons.

He looked at his vast libraries and thought to himself: “what good have you brought and the library answered “none”.

How strange. A library with nothing to give.

He came downstairs and asked the trees what good have they for him. Nothing said the tree. I am just a fluffy tree in your garden. Belittle and weak, son of the earth and the sky.

This must a bad day, nothing advises me.

He asked his dear mother about advise and she told him how pleasant was living for those who live pleasantry. Hmmm, he thought, this must be a bad day.

He booted up the console and played, hoping that at least some play would bring him some good. Hour passed after hour, levels were beaten, enemies killed, deaths counted, yet at the end, he didn’t feel refresh or reinvigorated.

He went to bed, hoping that at least his dreams would bring him solace. But nothing came. Only visions of mundanity and quotidian, vision of no help at all.

Oh dear, he asked upon waking up, this must be a real bad indeed! He went to the library and picked up a book. The book wasn’t good, too much romantic for his taste, too much esoteric and far from his reality. Yet his hopes didn’t falter, how could it be possible that no help could be found after all?

He looked at the stars and moon, hoping that at least the sky would have help for him. Then he remembered that there were no stars and the sky was bare where he lived and this may be the reason why he so often described beautiful visions of moon and stars.

He sited upon his pillow and meditate, at least some good would come from meditation, he thought to himself. Meditation makes aware that we create unhappiness. If I don’t find it in externals I must find it inside. Breath in, breath out, but help didn’t come, only random thought about checking books and internet pages. What has all this browsing produced was beyond him. Maybe just losing time was the reward.

And yet another day passed away, and while everyone was worried about tomorrow and after tomorrow, that thing and the next, how could they schedule their time so to please whatever person they had to please. He was wondering what to do when no help was to be found, neither within externals nor internals.

He looked deep at himself, he saw two men, very different both in aspect and in character, becoming the same and indistinguishable from each other when their instinct called. Showing how deep our animal’s roots are a certain animal instinct, kin, that unites us.

He saw his hollow grave again, a symbol of death waiting.

He saw a hundred vision of himself wasting precious time on frivolous things, being slaves to themself.

He saw good people being played by fate

He saw evil things playing fate

And at last, he saw some kind of challenge, a struggle if you so wish, against himself and his nature to reach freedom. Could you still see light in the darkness?

And now he was rambling again like a madman, frustrated, angry, lazy, against whatever poor soul is reading this. Dear poor soul congratulations for reading up to this point. Please stop now, there is nothing ahead. At least nothing worth reading. I don’t know what I am reading.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

Where was his passion gone? Where was the reverie hiding? He hadn’t seen those in a while. And yet he still had to write, muse or non-muse, help or not help, clear or not clear, reader or non. I think that this is the soul of writing, the soul of many other things. Being fully absorbed in the process, doing them without worrying about the result, doing them regardless of how bad the process is…

Or maybe he had to contain himself and just write a random story like he did many times.

When he was a child he thought how was it possible that so many texts hide so much. Way too much, in many cases. When he began to write he confirmed this belief, it must be impossible! Yet there was something else at play. There was something else giving meaning and writing the story. Something that can’t be quite understood, something that knows much more.

Look at my previous stories, look at what always repeats himself. Is it voluntary? No, no, it just pops up while I am writing the story. Like now. Is like a call to somewhere or something. I am not the most trusty of persons to ask things.

Another day passed, another day went, another time dawn arrived, another time twilight came. He felt tiredness into his bones, he slept, wake up and slept some more. And yet he still was tired. He was barely able to read. He was barely able to write.

He wanted to sleep but found no time for it, he had to wake up to do that or this, always something else to do, always… and at the end of the day more than tired he was hallucinating at that point. Look at poor Hypnos how is frown upon in this age as something to be cut and split. Look at how much you do treat him badly.

Long were gone the times in which he wrote in a “clear” and “concise” way without insert (too much) philosophy into it. Nah just kidding, my stories were always a mess, I just didn’t write what I wanted to write. Maybe is for this reason that they sound so… dull?

Dear reader reflect, what are you even doing at this point? Go elsewhere, there are better stories to read. Lighter, deeper, clearer stories that are only waiting for you. Is it so pleasurable to read a frustrated soul rant? There is nothing beyond this point. Truly nothing worth your attention. Go away.

When I was a child I remembered a story came to my mind, it was a mad and incoherent story, talking about conspiracy vampires and islands. I told it to my brother while we were at the beach. I decided to write it and publish it somewhere. Once I might have looked at it and said how bad and incoherent it was, how it was only the distraction of an afternoon. Yet now I remember it in tears. Good God what a strange artefact that is. Pure unconstrained energy. Pure and unconstrained will. By efforts appear so meaningless now, achievements, trophies, grades, marks, everything of this kind is fade away and I am left with nothing but dust now.

The other day I was eating dinner when my mother, talking about my written exams, said how she needed to do something about them because I am shit at writing. Even though I knew full well the context and the fact that he was talking about the grammatical side, still I nearly needed to run away crying. Do you know how bad is it to want to become a writer when every single written exam you barely got by? I don’t know my grammar. I suspect that I write better in English than my mother tongue.

There is a kind of hypocrisy working behind the scenes. While on the surface many people uphold on a deep level they bring down. How strange are events. Marks and rewards quickly fade away while moral courage or cowardice rest forever like a burning mark.

I don’t know what to write at this point, sorry dear reader this is not what you were excepting. I am not the happiest of person. I am not the stablest of person. I just fear opening up and write what I wish. When someone reads aloud something that I have written I blush. When someone says that he likes my story I am surprised twice. firstly because he liked it. Second, because someone read my story.

I wish I could read and write with the same easiness as I play videogames. Playing videogames is refreshing, reading is very tiring for me, writing a bit less. But above all, I wish I was a better writer if only I was better. If only for a few pages I could be full of inspiration I could finally write it. But I can’t. And in the mid-time, I have to write those untrue stories. And only now I realize that I will probably never be good enough for it and so I might just as well write the first draft.

Looking at many sites I have the sensation that too many people have lost the aim of this. Writing has become something akin to social media. And writers, especially novices, look for that continuous response that is typical of socials. Yet this makes them weaker. One of the fundamental points of writing is to write alone, without excepting a response or an audience. Just write and purge everything that you write from your ego.

I suspect that despair is not something unique to few but something so common that is rare not to have it. Is just that in many cases is repressed deeply and profoundly. So you live your life normally until one day like hit by a curse, everything crumbles down and you are left in a desert alone. Or you might die before that happens.

…

Ok after that I doubt that anyone is still here? Probably not. I hope not. In case I will begin writing something vaguely resembling a story.

On the crest of the night, there was a traveller. The night was long and he was sad. He didn’t fear so many dark times, what he feared the most was mundanities. It was for that reason that he was always riding on the crest of the night when night came.

Yet night would go away, something will emerge. And he would have to walk under the sun on the naked earth.