I don’ t want to read a book. A story written by someone else. I want my story just to be. Here. For me, for you. Whoever. In front of us. Ahead, into time. Kind of free-flowing into existence. — Damn, typo… But, hurray for spellcheckers.

Right. So. Who is it about? Yes. Carl. Who is Carl? Let me look him up. Ah, there he is. Somewhat older, somewhat vague. I’m not seeing him clearly yet. Carl? You okay? Carl looks sad. Carl has always played second fiddle. Standing next to the beam of light but never smack in the middle of it. I want to give that to Carl, but he keeps stepping aside. Carl? Where are you? Why do you always find your way back to the shadows? What’s so appealing about that? Can you write? Do you know how to tell a story? Your story? Carl? What is your story?

You are working on something, I can tell. Something is about to happen. And your name will be all over it. No sense in denying. Still you will, of course. Doubt always works for you. And we all are left guessing, climbing up the walls. Flies have nothing on us. We see and hear everything these days. And see and hear nothing. And you, you know this.

Should I know how your story ends, Carl? You know what? I don’t want it to end. So it won’t. You keep working and I keep writing. And your story will be.


1 thought on “Promise

  1. Pingback: Story-telling | Twan is here

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