|Mar. 3rd, 2004 09:14 pm Manuscript - "He lies awake at night..."|
He lies awake at night, waiting for something magical to happen, thogh nothing ever does. He yearns for change in this oft repeated routine, but it never comes. Yet still he watches, patient and calm.
He writes stories of what he waits for, of beasts that may dwell only in the imagination, from fantasy to plain pure fiction. The reality he searches for never exposes itself.
Often, he wonders, not if any of such things could exist, but rather if they do. Usually a loyal pessimist, in this one area, he does hope.
The stories all die out, lacking in plot, substance, or sense, and he asks himself why:
I see others writing such stories, I hear what they have to say, I do what they claim works; yet there they are, published and popular, and here I am, considering myself neither of those two by mere technicalities. What do they have that I don't? Where did I go wrong?
Or is the world merely not the place where items of such nature belong?
Current Mood: inspiredLeave a comment