The untold

The writing just happened

So some time past, it was now 3:45 and I'd written quite a bit.

The story started with this guy (Julian) who always wanted tot fly, he would do anything to fly.

Don't ask it was way to late to actually think of something good to write about.

But so he first started building things that seemed like they might fly, but really not one of them seemed to work, beside that it didn't mean he could fly, he just sat in something that could fly. So he decided to think about something new.

But back in my life tho something seemed wrong, the words didn't come in to my head like the usual do. This explanation may seem like that and of a writers block and to be honest if someone told me about this happening to them I would have thought the same thing. But that wasn't happening to me and there was more to it than a block, for a start it wasn't a block, the words weren't coming in to my head any more, buy It was more like the words happend, like the book was making them happen, pulling them out of my head before they were even in my head. At least before I noticed they were there, cause each time I wrote them down it seemed as if they had been there for years, all my life even. As if they were there barely scratching the surface, but doing so any way, enough to be written down at least.
They wrote themselves.
Not without my help, but without my thoughts.
Every now and then some words I wouldn't even use in day to day life were written down.
Something else I noticed was that I couldn't stop, I was trapped in my own story, my own thoughts and the words that just wrote themselves.
I think this is because every time a new sentence formed, as a new word was brought to life, I surprised myself. My book was forming, the story already known but only to the book.
It was keeping me there keeping me trapped and scared to miss a second of it.

Julian though (the guy in my book), had recently had a dream, which seemed like someone was wanting to talk to him, at least that's what he thought. A voice told him to go somewhere, a place he would be able to fly. He thought he'd be told later on where that was, he hoped he would at least.

Soon this fear of missing the story disappeared, it became a different fear, I was starting to wonder why I couldn't close it, why I couldn't put it away and come back later. I could come back tomorrow and see what I would come up with, that way I would have enough time to think of something more to write about, the story would get less repetitive and I'd get some sleep, it was 4:30 now anyway so some sleep wouldn't go a mis.
Yeah that's what I'd do, I'll come back tomorrow, carry on from where I left it.