When my fingers Were my typewriter

Here in between these golden desert sand. There was a book buried under the sand. As I was walking, saw it. I picked it up to look at it and read some of its pages. It was so beautiful. I have never seen something so passionate and effective like that. But the question now is who wrote these beautiful words? And why did she leave it here? Why would she leave it here? Soon the questions were solved by the letter that was left beside the notebook. There in these lines was the story, that holds a great pain. There was written the reason why she left these words in here. As I was sitting, a bright light shined in front of me, showing me a flashback of her life. Showing me why these words got caged and marked by forgetfulness, So now it's my role to tell that story. Life doesn't give you enough, either you tell that to yourself or others.

My first ever story
when my fingers were my typewriter.