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Literature Text
A wanderer knows no company.
He knows he is too different from other people.
Too much to be able to find a clear place to fit it.
He never allows anyone to accept him.
He never lets anyone in.
He wears the mask he forged for himself.
He migrates, never staying in one place for too long.
He keeps moving forward because whenever he stops, he looks back.
And all he sees is the darkness of his past.
In that darkness exists a shadow.
A shadow of regret.
A shadow he cannot accept.
A shadow that slowly follows along behind him.
He moves forward not because he wants to.
He moves forward because he has to.
He fears that shadow he cannot accept.
He fears it will finally catch up to him.
He fears what will then come next.
From time to time he stops to catch his breath.
He takes a look around, only to see no one left ,right or ahead.
He takes another look back.
Once again the shadow is there.
Slowly catching up.
He stares at it for a moment.
At times like this he cannot help but think it is a mirror
since it is a spitting image of him.
He wonders when it will finally catch up to him.
He thinks about it.
Only two words leave his mouth:
„Not Today"
He takes a look at the road ahead.
Still shrouded in darkness as always.
He takes a step forward.
He wonders if things could have been different.
Then he remembers.
His curse was not brought upon him by any god or fate, but by his own choices.
A path he made.
A path he must walk.
He is alone.
He is a wonderer.
Never in one place for long.
He knows he is too different from other people.
Too much to be able to find a clear place to fit it.
He never allows anyone to accept him.
He never lets anyone in.
He wears the mask he forged for himself.
He migrates, never staying in one place for too long.
He keeps moving forward because whenever he stops, he looks back.
And all he sees is the darkness of his past.
In that darkness exists a shadow.
A shadow of regret.
A shadow he cannot accept.
A shadow that slowly follows along behind him.
He moves forward not because he wants to.
He moves forward because he has to.
He fears that shadow he cannot accept.
He fears it will finally catch up to him.
He fears what will then come next.
From time to time he stops to catch his breath.
He takes a look around, only to see no one left ,right or ahead.
He takes another look back.
Once again the shadow is there.
Slowly catching up.
He stares at it for a moment.
At times like this he cannot help but think it is a mirror
since it is a spitting image of him.
He wonders when it will finally catch up to him.
He thinks about it.
Only two words leave his mouth:
„Not Today"
He takes a look at the road ahead.
Still shrouded in darkness as always.
He takes a step forward.
He wonders if things could have been different.
Then he remembers.
His curse was not brought upon him by any god or fate, but by his own choices.
A path he made.
A path he must walk.
He is alone.
He is a wonderer.
Never in one place for long.
Literature
Writer's block
The pencil lies idly next to the notebook.
The icon on the computer screen blinks almost in a mocking fashion, the keys gathering dust.
That notebook is opened to a fresh page, not a letter or eraser shaving on it.
That computer is opened up to a new document, again, no words on it, not even the use of undo or redo as a sign that maybe something was once there.
And there's not a damn thing I can do about it.
I can think of few things in this world that are as frustrating.
Literature
Too shy
Oh god, look; He's online.
Your heart lets off a harsh thud before going into a more... pleasant -if I may use that word- hyperdrive.
What should you do? Do you message him? Wait for him to talk to you first? What if he doesn't? You don't wanna seem desperate, but in all honesty, you are...
Just as you're about to cave, he beats you to punch. Your heart leaps with joy. He initiated the conversation! That must mean he likes you... Or at the very least, likes talking to you. You regain your composure as you type what you think is a witty response.
A conversation sparks, and the two of you talk for hours; though to you it feels like just min
Literature
Before I Can Become a Writer
Develop insomnia. Develop
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.
Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.
Cry. Cry for the inevitab
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A piece i've had stored up on my hard drive for a while.
Comments21
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Have you ever read the Anglo-Saxon poem "The Wanderer"? It reminds me of yours, so I thought that you'd maybe been inspired by it?
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