I believe stories have a will of their own, one that surpasses in volition that of their teller. In realms of Storytelling, stories control their bearers, and eventually, their hearers as well.
There are certain levels of sadness that introduce you to parts of yourself you never knew existed, and it’s always a much purer version of you that couldn’t be any you-er than you. You fall in love with it and forget to move on.
I became addicted to the floating nature of nothingness, to the charm of its carefree pauses and to waiting. I magnified waiting. I wrote about waiting. I basked in its warm nook and completely let go of who I am or what I really wanted.