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Great Writers Dont Write

Novel By: nusra
Literary fiction



He thought about that pure thing, the pure state, for everything, which is possible, to have, to be. He always respected the time, the time that makes sand from the big rocks would one day turn him into sand. But before then, he wanted to turn into something new, a purer version of him... View table of contents...


Chapters:

1 2 3 4

Submitted:Mar 5, 2013    Reads: 8    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


He just stood up under the wide blue sky that was half-filled with white clouds floating light and fast. He wished his head was nothing more than that blue sky, he wished his thoughts were exactly like those clouds, floating, light and fast. He wanted to sit down and watch the sky until his head flooded with heavy, rustic thoughts would be cleared one day, resembling the sky. He thought that is possible as everything is possible. He has been told many times that everything is possible. He always believed that everything is possible, always, and that something called everything included him, as "always" that covered his present, his past and his future as well as the any timelessness he might find on his way. He thought everything was possible always and his existence was a part of those possibilities. He was / is possible. At least theoretically…

He finally felt relieved noticing that he belongs to something, somehow. He thought how relieving it was to be a part of something, although that something covered everything, did not have boundaries and did not leave anything out, embraced compassionately, like a mother, gracious and it was the only category he felt belonging to. Did he feel lonely or sad? Was he lost? He would not mind. He now was feeling comfortable and at home in the universe of everything.

He wondered "How I started to think about all these?" It was just a minute ago he just wanted the sky to fill his mind with its all emptiness, compassion, lightly and slightly. He wanted to feel his body is not a burden anymore on his shoulders and knees, his head is not. He wanted to feel that he can exist like the sky wide, light, light blue… He wanted to be something else. Something wide, light, light blue. He wanted to make something else out of himself, sitting here.

He then sensed it: the first thought… first time…

It was the first time he thought about the first thought. Was it a thought or just a sensation of something invisible, something pure, simple, neutral, something that has only life, nothing else… Like a breath, necessary, essential, nothing else… and elegant in itself, that did not have any standards to measure or compare… that is strong and fragile so can be lost easily… too sensitive to risk, so light and slippery to exist,yet stronger than everything. Stronger than everything with its nothingness, with its beauty, simplicity. Stronger than the rocks that crack somehow with the repetitive touch of the snowflakes and turn into pebbles and the sand.

He thought about that pure thing, the pure state, for everything, which is possible, to have, to be, everything, thanks god, always included him, and luckily everything was possible always. He always respected the time, the time that makes the sand from the big rocks would one day turn him into sand. But before then, he wanted to turn into something new, a purer version of him…

He first time thought about that very thing, sitting under the light blue sky, half-filled with white, light, floating clouds. He wanted to capture it, in an isolated thought field, protected from the flood of the other ones. He knew every thought needed a space to exist and evolve.

He needed some space, not for himself, for that very pure thing. Not even for that very pure thing, but the thought of it. He thought, it would rest in that space and grow, like a plant. The thought finally would create that very pure thing, the plain thing, the thing which is only itself, nothing more. He hoped, then, that very pure thing would take over his existence from his hand, and make something worth being out of himself.





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