In the beginning, there are always things that seem more important than others.
A foolish dream. A reckless leap. A hope built on nothing.
The kind of dream that begins without thought and walks blindly into failure, trusting that fate—or something like it—will do the work. That's the lie we tell ourselves. That Destiny will show the way. That if we drift long enough, we'll arrive somewhere.
Foolishness.
To hope for something while lacking the will to fight for it, to push until the bitter end—that is a writer's greatest sin.
It's not about how eloquent your words are, how educated your phrases sound, or how philosophical your tone might be. It's not about style, poetry, or even purpose. To be a writer is to finish. To follow the thought to its furthest edge. To bleed it out on the page until there's nothing left but silence.
I know this… because I was born from none of it.
I am a drop of ink in an endless sea that knows where it's going.
I don't.
I only remember where I began—an unfinished page in a nameless book, collecting dust on a forgotten shelf. No author. No title. No end. A lost damsel made of nothing but premise.
---
She stood there, that figure—vague. Not invisible, not clear. Foggy was the word closest to truth.
She had a shape. A woman's shape. And yet, not entirely human. Her skin was pale, too smooth, like unpainted porcelain. Her features existed only enough to be guessed at—eyelids, lips, the suggestion of a nose—but never seen directly. A ghost drawn in a few brushstrokes.
Her face... carried the stillness of a doll. Beautiful, maybe. But mostly blank. Eyes that hinted at meaning, but never settled on one. A smile that wasn't warm, nor cold. Just there.
She parted her lips—not dramatically, not with flair. They simply moved, like they had done so a hundred times before. Her voice was soft, too smooth, like a practiced narrator who no longer cared about the tale.
She sighed. Quiet. Regal. Tired.
"Ah," she said, as if displeased.
Not with herself. But with me.
---
> "He's annoying when he tries to take the narrative. He complicates the simple. Always overthinking, always choosing abstraction."
She wasn't speaking to anyone. No one else was there. And yet, she seemed aware of someone beyond her page.
> "He doesn't understand that I means him. The one who keeps narrating my unfinished story. Describing what was never meant to be described. He returns again and again with commentary... as if this is still his."
She paused.
And for a moment, despite her featureless form, a tension formed at her brow—a vein that would have appeared if she had the detail to show one.
Her mouth opened again.
Her voice didn't speak to the narrator, or to the reader.
It spoke upward. Outward.
To something beyond even the page.
---
> "My Lord, please… Give me a chance to be the brightest star ever written. I'll make it worth it."