literature

The Writer's Hill

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Literature Text

As the autumn breeze rolled through the quiet little village, once again the world was preparing itself for the coming winter. Despite this, everyone was enjoying the last of fading waves of the rare warmth as life went on as it normally did.
Atop of the hill, laying on the village outskirts, a young man found himself alone staring towards the distant horizon filled with the warm colors and the falling leaves seemingly longing for something which was out of his reach.
And as a writer this longing for things beyond reach had become his inspiration.
The hill he would sit upon was his castle from which he could objectively look down at the essences of life below.
Wasting away minutes of his existence just looking around from high up in the clouds, taking in the sights and losing himself in an endless sequence of thoughts.
Thoughts which welled up inside of him, strong enough to influence his emotions.
These emotions gave birth to various feeling most notably exposing the loneliness and sadness trapped within his heart already filled with longing.
This wasn't bad in his opinion because by closing his eyes and opening his heart he'd found that he could see and feel something more then what was generally perceived by other living beings.
These feelings and thoughts granted him an ability which felt like it could be the very definition of what magic, if it really existed, should be.  
Within his mind, the very fabrics of existence could weave together and form different shapes.
Each strand coming together to create something beautiful from the chaos of nothingness.
He could create the one thing which could grant him a unique form of freedom as well as granting him the feeling of immortality -
A story.

A simple arrangement of words which carried a message from his heart,
the inspiration for which came from his endless well of creation, made up of his emotions, wild imagination and deep well of thought.
From loneliness, he could create a story within which the truest companionship could be found.
Sadness gave birth to tales with the earnest and happiest of endings.
The darkness of hate bred a deep and beautiful love.
Along with the lessons he had learned thus far in life, he drew forth many words which bent and took shape on a simple piece of paper.
Even if what he created or wrote wasn't a given truth or had no place in cruel reality, it could exist and be looked upon with awe despite this.
Words, powerful enough to breath life to something as non-existent as the world in his mind, because he had taken the time to give them a soul.
He did this because it was what he knew best and loved most, even if no one was ever going to read what he had written.
This was alright with him.
After all, he was fine with keeping all of the worlds he created to himself as long as at the end of the day they could continue to exist
within the boundaries of this world and the one in his dreams, he felt as if that in itself was good enough for him.
So from the top of his castle on the hill the feelings of longing slowly faded away as his stories and worlds came to life.
The cold autumn breeze lost it's strength as the day gave way to night and the calmness of the starry night sky.
His story was complete.
His world now had a soul.
His heart and mind now clear.
Even his sense of longing had disappeared with the winds.

Once again, he felt free and satisfied with the many pages he had written.
One day he thought he might end up writing a book, but that day laid somewhere in the future and for the moment he was content with this alone.
Done for the day, he descended from his hill in the clouds back to the quite village below.
Already dreaming of the worlds he had yet to create.
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