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ONCE UPON A TIME, THERE was fate, and the cosmos, the universe. And there was darkness, the earth, and the stars.
And then, there was her. The writer, and her typewriter.
She lived on the earth.
It was very dark, where she lived.
The only source of light was the dim flickering of the writer's dying candle as she typed away, writing about everything.
She wrote about the darkness, about the dark world she lived in.
She wrote about the lack of color and splendor in the robotic people she saw around her every day, living life without meaning, purpose and adventure.
She wrote about how the children never played outside, or laughed anymore.
She wrote about how no one went on any adventures anymore.
And about how the people around her never cared about anything but money and power.
She watched people throw themselves into splendor, making themselves beautiful from the outside, but ugly on the inside.
She watched how people became clones of one another, shunning away the different ones, the ones who didn't fit in.
The ones like herself.
She watched her home become nothing but a shell of the wonderful place it once was.
She wrote about how the stars never shined anymore.
How there was knowledge, but no wisdom. How there was an abundance of light, but it was all fake.
How she had grown up with infinite dreams and wishes, only for them to be crushed and stamped upon before they even bloomed.
She wrote about how imagination slowly died.
She wrote and wrote, and did not stop, hoping to change the world with her words. Hoping to restore her home to its former glory.
Hoping to fill the world with stories of what could be.
But the people laughed at her words, and shunned her away, shutting her out and calling her a freak and a weirdo.
But she did not lose hope.
YOU ARE READING
blood like gasoline | 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐭
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