The Story That I Long To Tell

The Story I Long To Tell: I recently started sensing this story from the air; I started glimpsing the portion of its cloth when I read other stories; I heard its whisper behind characters’ words while I watched films; it swirmed around the lyrics of my favorite songs; like the sound of water, the melody of this mysterious story circled around my collection of classic music and soundtracks. The energy of the story seized me tight until I couldn’t take it anymore.

I eased myself on a chair and wrote it. I wrote and wrote and I was very satisfied. But then I was terrified; it was a horror story. I dislike horror stories; but somehow writing them is not so bad. You just follow some rules of life; or creation just occurs and you find yourself writing scenes of people eating other people.

Less than seven hours later, I realized that the story I wrote is not the one I wanted to tell. The one I wanted to tell was once more creeping on the surface of my heart like the hands of a cold smoke. I heard it because I still found myself under the chains of why I wanted to write a horror story. One: I have been watching too much of Game Of Thrones; Two: My brain is still paralyised by the heartlessness of the Florida teens who watched a man, mocked him and recorded him while he drowned and didn’t save him or call for help until he drew his very last breath (true story, look it up). Three: Under the influence of other motion pictures; I realised that even though man is evil, a man is also kind and good. But then I wrote a horror story that only fulfilled reason 1 and reason 3. Not the story I wanted to tell.

The next morning, the story crawled around my dreams. Its breath smeared over the pale images I saw and it echoed around the sounds I heard in my dreams. I later lifted my eyes up to the sky and watched the moving clouds, and further behind them, there it was. My story; my floating blurly story. I reached out my hand to touch the clouds, but I remembered that my arm is too short to touch something that high. My hand couldn’t. But my brain could. And so, I closed my eyes, and let my soul extend to the walls of the glass walls of the sky.

Close, my mind is now. And so, my hands still haven’t been able to grasp that story; my fingers haven’t yet been able to write the crap out of that story. But my brain knows it’s about exploring good against evil; things that I try to understand almost every single day of my life.

I’ll next look closely to my surroundings and to listen intently to my inner voice; until I am able to figure out what it is that is that I want to say, to explore; to answer; to solve. Until I reach the peak of inspiration, I’ll know the story I long to tell.

More from aKoma