Aermin (English Version)

Aermin (English Version)

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WpMetadataReadMatureOngoing6h 53m
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Sat, Feb 26, 2022
"When I was a child, my father told me about a distant land. A land so extraordinary with cities so huge that they escaped sight and creatures so fantastic that they do not fit even in the imagination of a child. An ancient land of ancient kings, knights, dragons, and species that walk and talk like men. I always believed that they were stories, tales and legends that men invent to appear interesting to their lovers or to scare children. But no matter how much I repeat it to myself, something in those stories draws me like the bare hips of a young maiden. I've decided I must find out for myself. In this manuscript I have decided to tell its story, a story that I believed was as real as the children's stories that my mother told me. This is not just a story of a fantastic land, this is not just a story of kings, knights and dragons. This is the legend of Aermin" (I'm not a native english speaker. My english is very good, however i still make some mistakes. I'm doing my own translation to english, so please let me know if you find something wrong) Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Aermin Youtube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC8ESy2oeJFbWREeRqK0LHtg
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FINISHED AND COMPLEATED. Just poems, I suppose. Or maybe a scrapbook of scars. A chaotic collage of half-born stories, abandoned plots, and feelings too loud to ignore. This isn't a novel. It's a graveyard of unwritten books- stitched together with ink and impulse. A little trauma here, a little heartbreak there. Addiction. Bad parents. Dangerous love. The usual mess. I never claimed to be a poet, but pain has a way of teaching rhythm. And when the stories in my head refused to become chapters, they became verses instead. My father? A ghost in flesh. A man who cradled needles more tenderly than he ever held me. He is an addict. A lover of oblivion. And I, the daughter left behind in the smoke of his escape. Does that make me a girl with "daddy issues"? Or just a girl still learning how not to bleed from wounds she didn't choose? This book is for the overthinkers, the almost-authors, the ones who feel too much and write too little- until the words finally spill out like blood on the page. Welcome to the ride. There's no exit. But there's poetry in the wreckage. Author's Note I didn't set out to write a book. I set out to survive my own mind. This is what happens when you have too many stories, too many ghosts, and not enough discipline to finish a single novel. So instead, I wrote poems- or something like them. Fragments. Feelings. Flashbacks. A scrapbook of the soul. Some of these pieces are fiction. Some are memory. Some are just what happens when you stare at the ceiling too long and let your thoughts rot into poetry. If you've ever had a thousand ideas and no idea where to start- if you've ever felt too broken to write but too full not to- this is for you. Thanks for riding with me. There's no map. No neat ending. Just the wreckage, and the words we make from it.

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