I've decided to write something else for a bit.

I'm not entirely sure why, but I don't feel like writing this anymore at the time.

I'll come back to it. If I ever decide I definitely won't, I'll delete this story.

Thank you for reading what you have read so far. I'm well aware that this piece of writing is rather terrible, and hopefully, when I come back to write this, if I do, I'll be a much better writer.

I'm much more likely to end up re-writing this entire thing, if anything.

...

I need to continue to talk. I have to fill up the 500 word requirement, after all. I refuse to simply put down a bunch of 'a a a a a's though.

...

I really wonder what I should talk about though? Well, write about.

Hmmm...

...I suppose I'll go on a tad bit of a rant. I'm sorry.

I feel like a part of the reason I've lost motivation is the complete lack of interaction with you... I know my writing's bad, but somehow, 3 people follow it.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Why?

Please, please tell me. I would really love to know.

What do you like about this piece of writing?

...

And why the silence? It's been more than two months of crappy writing, and yet... not a single comment. I feel like even a snarky criticism would be better than this... complete silence.

Are the views on my story simply robots? Or are those of you reading this, real? It would be really, really comforting to know that an actual human has read what I've written.

I suppose it's not a good idea to go down this rant.

I'm sorry.

I'll stop, now.

Haaa...

...

...

...I still have to talk for 200 more words, huh?

I'm an introvert. If there's nothing to speak about, I prefer the silence. Writing a story is my will to make figment of my imagination, figments of dreams, real. I feel like I've done those dreams no justice. This pitiful trashy writing doesn't match with the images pulled from dreams in my mind.

I want to make them real, if only words on a page. To make them more than mere thoughts.

That's how all my stories come to be. This isn't my only account on this site. I have another, though all the stories on it are dead.

For this one, I've managed to stop myself from deleting it.

After a month or two, looking back on your story, you cringe, and you want to kill it. To erase it.

They aren't good enough for the figments of imagination in my head. The figments of my dreams. I'm not good enough of a writer to give them justice.

...This one is different though, in somewhat of a bad way.

I feel like, this time, the only reason this one lives, is because I do have another reason for writing, apart from my dreams that I want to make words on a page.

...

I won't talk about that.

...

It's embarrassing, my ulterior motive.

So, I'll end it here.

If I return, which I do hope I do...

I hope I'll paint the picture in my mind, write the story in my dreams.

Goodbye. I hope we'll speak again.