The Story Never Written
I placed my hand on the desk. Never would that hunk of wood know what treasures it would store inside. The story never written, as I liked to say. The story that germinated inside my mind for years but I never let out. And now, on a single stack of papers, I would finally write it.
Who could know what struggles I went through for this moment? Would I be mocked for my thoughts? Would this valiant effort be in vain? I have no way of telling. The only way I could know is to write the thoughts swirling in my mind. But how? How could hours of meditating on this story, weeks with it brewing in my mind, ever be translated into words? Perhaps I would simply keep it to myself, hidden in the desk for years. Yet, I could never risk someone finding it. No, I must face this challenge now.
My fists clenched as I made the unthinkable decision. I would indeed write it and face the consequences.
I sat staring at the blank canvas, waiting for a masterpiece to be painted. Rhythmically, I tapped the pencil against the desk, wondering where I could start. Perhaps this story wasn't ready. Perhaps the draft after draft archived in my mind wasn't enough. No, I can't back down now. I must be brave and face my fear. With a deep breath, my hand moved, and the pencil touched down upon the paper. It was as if time stood still as I wrote the title in bold letters,“The Story Never Written”. Then my fingers refused to continue.
Minutes ticked by as I stared at the title, my mind racing to find the starting words. But none came. My mind was swallowed up in a thick void which was inescapable. A fog settled down on my mind and refused to budge, even under the strongest attempts. I vainly tried again and again to spit the words onto the page, but my whole body screeched in protest. Maybe I should simply wait. I set down the pencil and pushed the papers aside, but the main title still stared me in the face, upset at its blankness. My hands relaxed, but the minutes still slipped by, the sound of the clock mocking me with every movement of the second hand.
Finally, with a great effort, I seized the papers and again picked up the pencil, fully prepared to write. But something stood in the way, a brick wall in my mind. This story must be shown to the world! This could change the very innerworkings of our culture, of humanity, even! How could I refrain from sharing such a piece with the world?
Yet, I could hear agony echoing through my mind, as though I was giving up my only child.
“It's just a story”, I repeat to myself over and over, but every time the guilt imbeds itself further and deeper in my chest. Again, I do the unthinkable thing. Perhaps this story wasn't ready. Or perhaps it would never be ready. So, I neatly stacked the papers together again and slid them into the desk, locking the drawer. That desk held nothing but a few scribbles of pencil and dashed hopes. The story never written remained unwritten. Now you will never know.
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