The death of a story

I’ve spent the past few days, almost a month, looking at you die a slow death. It hurts me to see you like this. It hurts me to see I can’t do anything despite my best efforts. I still remember the day you were born. You were nothing but a string of thought in the cobwebs of my brain. But you were a real fighter. You fought your way through the millions of half-thought thoughts, you made my inert mind, stop the thousands of permutations and combinations of reality with my own made fiction take notice of your nascent but infectious energy. The moment I spent more than 3 seconds with you, I knew you would be special. I knew this journey we would embark on would lead me down a path of enlightenment, and it did.

In ways, I was even afraid of you. You spoke of things my fingers never dared to even trace with the use of words. What if those words would give life to what was just a figment of my imagination? What if those words were like a hidden chant that whispers into its fictional being and blurs the line that distinguishes the two worlds?

Am I thinking too much? Or am I plainly forcing a power onto my words? Either way, the end isn’t near, it is here. Just as momentously you entered my consciousness, you leave without any trace. Some would call this writer’s block. I would say, some stories just don’t have an end, or they don’t take the shape you want to give them. I’ve built you with my own hands, so I owe you a fair goodbye. ‘Welcome Home’, it’s time you leave your unsaid tale looking for a culmination in our readers’ imagination. May you find the end, you were looking for.

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