How a writer died.

May 7, 2011 at 8:24 pm (From beyond reality)

I came back to tell another story. This time the story is about another story, the kind of story that everyone carries through their live, the kind of story that is being written every day, the kind of story that someone will perhaps read after it’s done. So, once upon a time there was a writer who naturally used to compose novels, sci-fi mostly, and he was pretty good at it; not only that his stories really used to make sense, but they were also captivating and people enjoyed reading them. However, exploring his inborn talent took the writer a lot of time, it actually consumed roughly all of his spare time. The immediate consequence was obviously a defective social life, for he didn’t have time to be a nice person, even though deep down inside he craved for socialisation and the comforting feeling of fitting in a group. After all, it’s natural to feel like that, human nature demanding to be respected. So he started to tell people stories instead of writing them down. Unfortunately, the result was not an increase in popularity among his peers. They labelled him as being a lunatic. In the end he ceased making up any story, thinking that people have no need to learn about anything that he can tell and not enough good will to listen to another person getting off their chest. This is how our writer died.

The question is: whose fault was it?

The story’s fault, because it made people feel bad about themselves;

The writer’s fault, because he chose to tell his stories in a wrong way;

People’s fault, because a story cannot behave for itself.

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