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Something stupid

Life can be strange. For a while it looks like everything is going your way, then you wake up and find out: You have lived a dream. It gets worse. It wasn’t even a good dream. Mediocre at best. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing if you sometimes wish that life is a movie or a novel. It’s not always wrong if you believe that you’re director or narrator. It can be nice, and usually is. But you have to be a damn good one. Otherwise everything comes to collapse. Sweat breaks out, you see the shadows dancing on the wall and you gradually lose control. Demise is near, you know it, you feel it as deep as in your bones. Temperature rises as he walks through the wasteland looking for the truth. You hear the choir of angles calling out your name. They know: it’s over. You led the way into the desert, you directed that scene, you were the almighty narrator whom told the tale about that brave warrior, strong silent type with sword in one and book of all faiths in other hand. Almost omnipotent creature driven only by strong fate in a dream, convinced in a certain order in earthly matters. You are the one who led him here. Not so long ago, your warrior was a young man full of hopes and dreams. He left home and came your way only to see that there’s no brave new world. He stands gazing at the horizon trying to find something between earth and sky. That should have been his great adventure, tale of pride and strength, great battle for valor. No brave new world, just this garden of fear. He couldn’t have known. He is only what you made him to be. No more, no less. Your obscure plot created this. Your insane ambition, your quest for some sort of Holy Grail placed him here. It’s too late to start wondering where did it went wrong. You’re the one who send him on this voyage. First you wanted him be this great mariner, master and commander of “Dover’s pride”. He was. He coped with high seas and traitorous crew, prevailing winds and scurvy, pirates and maritime legends, faulty maps and deceitful stars. He had all the makings of a fine captain. He made it to the land where no man has gone before. Then you wanted him to be great explorer. Cross mach of Allan Quatermain and esteemed scholar from Jules Vern’s novels. And he was. He managed to make fire where ever they camped, when there was shortage of gunpowder he made some. He knew to read tracks and history of ancient tribes along the way. During this voyage some of his crew-man had died, some turned and left home. Near the end he was left alone. And now, you have no more ideas. All clichés from XIX century novels are used. Now what mister narrator? Will you leave your creation in god forsaken wasteland? Why are you trying to widen lens on your camera mister so called director? There’s no perspective here, you won’t find some miraculous motive in this landscape. It’s down to you and your character. He can’t find the way out, you failed to equip him with necessary knowledge. There are no maps here; stars can’t lead the way because of the clouds. There’s no turning back because you want too far for too long. What will you do mister almighty narrator?

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