Writing. It's a beautiful thing. Poetry, novels, short stories, song lyrics, musical pieces. It can be thoughtful, or thoughtless.
Long and boring or short and sweet. It can reveal to us our deepest secrets and our darkest desires. It can make us laugh and make us cry.
Personally, I can't write anything to save my life, I'm more one for drawing. It's actually how I discovered automatic writing. Such a weird thing at first. I was just simply sketching the mountains surrounding my house when I found myself in a trance like state. I'd no idea what I was doing, until I snapped out of it, looked down at my drawing to find it covered in writing. Words I had no memory writing. But when I read thse words I was unimpressed. They talked of a particularly strong storm storm to come. One leading to a death of another child. I scrunched the paper up and tossed it away, annoyed at myself.
The next day a storm rolled in, just like the one described and it wasn't until the next morning that the litle kid was found dead in the woods- hit by lightening. I was 9
when this happened.
Twenty years later I'm still stuck with this uncanny ability of writing the future. The writing comes more frequently than ever before. I've never learned to control what I do. But, I've learned I've had to do something about the horrors my writing prophesizes. So I do. Most of the time I can stop a murder or prevent a kidnapping. But sometimes I fail. Sometimes my writing comes too late so it's virtually impossible to prevent. Being best friends with a cop really helps. We've been friends since kindergarten. We share everything. She's really great at helping prevent my writings from coming true. Even if we fail, we always catch the bad guys in the end.
My writings always come true. There has never been a time that they haven't. I've been writing this particular occurance for a year now. I am well prepared. There's nothing more to do.
This is my final bout of automatic writing. This is one of those which has no chance of stopping. It's going to happen and there's nothing I can do about it. I'm going to die, along with everyone else in the world. The world is going to come to an end in only a few short minutes. I'm writing this now, for maybe some day some where someone will find this and know what came to be of the planet we so lovingly call Earth. It seems as though the Mayans were right. About one thing at least. December 2012 the end is ending. Although it won't be as dramatic as everyone thought it would be. Or hoped. The world - according to my newest writing - will be hit by an astroid. This will literally rock the world. The part of the world that isn't instantly caught in the explosion will quickly crack to the center of the earth's core. Chunks of the earth's surface will be blown to bits until finally there's nothing at all left. Earth will cease to exist.
Writing. Such a beautiful thing. It can at times be inevitable. Once a pen touches the paperyou find yourself writing such hgonest and beautiful pieces of art but it can be rubbish or maybe even, like this, sinister in most inconvenient of times.
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