Forever writing stories in my head
There is beauty in those stories. There is calm where I am in my stories. Pain melts away with peace and warmth of touch. Sometimes, it feels as though it’s wrong of me to want that. But these are my stories. No one has to know what I’m doing. No one has to know I’m allowing myself to be happy. I will only be satisfied for a moment. Then, I will write a tragedy, the way of stories. Any good story has to have pain. Any good story needs its protagonist to suffer awfully. The story wants its subject to be broken to learn to live. I’ll break them. I’ll twist them into a million knots. My head will spin, but the story will be good.
Maybe then the protagonist can be happy again. Perhaps then they can have the touch they so desire. Maybe then they can have their innocence back. Possibly then they feel the love they’ve always craved. A warm hug from someone who knows how the story goes without having to search their head and find the words and phrases. A long, silent day, sitting, and walking, and writing, and just being.
These are all stories. Just stories. Stories I’m always writing in my head. Stories of magical fantasy lands where people are happy. Where we are loved. Magical lands where people are good. Faraway places where we know that those who know understand. Land of stories where love exists.
The stories in my head get really heavy. They get broken, they get twisted.
Forever writing stories in my head, never on paper.
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To Whom It May Concern 