The storyteller

Welcome! Fellow mischief makers and storytelling enthusiasts, let's embark on this journey to worlds that reside in words.

[nixscriptum]

[thestoryteller8]

A flower crown around my neck

As I stand on my bed

To see the angel by my side

Take a light out of sight

[thestoryteller8]

Sometimes I feel useless, expendable. There's not many things that I can do in this world, in fact there's only one thing. It's a different kind of torture to be mediocre at the only thing you can do. I see people being better than me, I see them doing it fluently while I sit with my open dictionary. I stumble on my words in the only language I speak well. The thing, though that makes me want to crawl out of my skin and brain and let the world consume me is that I don't even try or don't feel the need to. The calm of idleness doesn't make me uncomfortable anymore, I don't feel the compulsion to do the thing. All I do is sit here mourning my lack of passion.

[thestoryteller8]

✨ Morning motivations✨

[thestoryteller8]

People often categorise the dystopian and science fiction genre in brackets closer to each other but I feel like dystopian literature should be linked closer to historical fiction.

Writers of dystopian works by and large have spoken about how their stories aren't fictitious inventions of their imaginations but instances taken from different points in history, constructed in a future that is seemingly far away. The truth though is that it is simply historical events stiched together in the context of today's society and world.

[thestoryteller8]

(R. F Kuang- Katabasis)

[thestoryteller8]

Why is it that the same sun feels harsh in some cities but warms my soul in others.

[thestoryteller8]

There are times in my life where, I feel like a small poster on my wall. The reason for it being there is to complete the collage on the wall, there is no special meaning, no emotion, no nostalgia about it's presence. It's only there to fill space.

And this it does perfectly, it seems to fit perfectly. But it's still an outlier, it's a funny pun but that's all there is to it. In the superficiality of it's existence it tries to find meaning.

[thestoryteller8]

How come I have been to so many different states, lived in so many different cities, slept on so many different beds, seen so many skies and stars, seen skyscrapers, seen trees, seen mountains and the river, I have experienced each weather, all seasons, breathed the air of many towns; good, bad, fresh smelly. I have exited in different places at different times and yet I don't exist anywhere, don't belong anywhere, my life is the same monotonous series of event in every storyline. What is Home and why do I not have it ? Why is there no anchor in my life, a place that I want to return to ?

[thestoryteller8]

Belief in humanity is a spectrum at one end there are optimists and on the other those who drink black coffee.

[thestoryteller8]

You know writer's block, I think I have writing block as in I have ideas, just the absence of the ability to Actually write 🙂

[thestoryteller8]

They say writing is the highest form of honesty, that to write is to stand bare in front of everyone and be ready for whatever is hurled at you - praise or critique.

But what do I do when I have lost touch with my honesty, when I can't seem to string together a sentence without questioning my morality and lying to myself. What to do when you adopt the language of deception and yet desire fluency in writing. How do I make myself like myself enough to be honest and write. How do I learn to speak a language I have long forgotten.

[thestoryteller8]

Following your dreams as an Individual who falls on the realistic end of the spectrum is like an adult being lured by a kidnapper with a candy.

Like I know this isn't how it's supposed to go, my parents told me when I was a baby not to follow suspicious looking individuals and yet there I go wrecking my life for a candy. Which I may or may not get. The "may get" is the driving force.

[thestoryteller8]

The creator of the Universe

From nothing, I create,

A word rich in detail,

To fill my life, desolate,

Seas of stories, I sail.

Through night and day,

My pen is my only solace,

To fulfill hopes, that one day, my words may,

Lifte the spirits on people's face.

So in hopes of happiness, I create,

People and places that are fake,

I open the heavens' gate,

For people to swim in an ephemeral lake.

The lake, but, was a product of tears,

It's basis is the shed of blood of people,

To alter the child's fate tried many seers,

The destruction of my own creation, in my head I mull.

I am the creator of this universe,

But the road of death, I, myself paved,

Of my own beautiful creation, loneliness everlasting is my life's curse,

And now I drown in misery's waves.

[thestoryteller8]

Summer stained blue

The year your calls stopped,

The days were hot but it felt like the temperature had dropped,

When your voice I couldn't hear,

My life was wrecked beyond repair.

The memories of glasses filled with sweet juices,

and hallways full of noise,

Became haunted memories decorated with your unused toys,

Gardens once adorned with flowers, became a shrine of dead roses.

The rooms where we chatted away the night,

Holding our breaths trying not to die,

Sitting here alone is impossible; no matter how hard I try,

Can silence quitely kill ? It might.

Where lemon soda could get us drunk,

It seems like the place has shrunk,

I remember those nights on the terrace,

Now, I suffocate, a flower in a dying vase.

The cool air in the room, and the burger crumbs on our fingertips,

With our legs stretched out on the floor, dreaming of a distant Tommorow,

Who knew that the "2 years later" montage of our film will be tagged "sorrow".

only the voices of tears and prayer,now escape the onlookers' lips.

My summers have forever been stained blue,

From the remnants of the memories I hold of you.

[thestoryteller8]

Depravity is the mother of yearning

[thestoryteller8]

Depravity is the mother of yearning