The Story's Tale

Short and I'm new

The Story's Tale

How funny it is, but yet, so heartbreaking to know. I wish I knew the whole story in advance. I did so very well, I tried, but I ignored it. My perception had blinded me, lost was I wholly withdrawn, and vulnerable, forever ignorant to its separate plot, focused solely on me. My story tells a new but an old familiar tale, my own accord. I'm living each day by dawn and dusk, and somehow I always fail to see the plot in it all. I think you see it ever so clear, but it's all just a blur to me. Is this why you are so familiar to me? Why did my novel bring you to read past chapter 1? I guess curiosity never ends, and we always have to know, but knowledge is half the battle when you can't answer things about yourself. I can always tell a story, and some I'm more familiar with then my own, but like most, these tales are still with a few pages missing. I know the book itself is at its most crucial part, just reaching its peak for that big moment.
Nevertheless, this moment invariably buries itself into my peripatetic subconsciousness as an involuntary vicissitude that we carve our days around, which in turn standardized our lives unwilingly as if we were meant to anticipate this occurrence and oblige. My own story tells itself with time, portraying itself as a living being ready to play the role of my life in knowing all of my passions, all of my ambitions, and all of my wisdom, to just be taken so deviously in such haste, forcefully stolen from me with no remorse. Still, the void in my heart, the purest form of malice, I reach to take it all back with the very scourge of my story I never told. I will never know if I succeeded; I had lost myself for such a very long time. I'm so far beyond the years of sorrow and the attenuation of my being. I've drowned myself in tears of contrition that I reconciled myself to a sleepless reverie that even on the very still and tranquil new moon nights that tell this story so well, I lie awake. Yet, somehow I'm expected to know the stories I've never had the chance to hear coming from the person standing before me today. The years pass by, and I see many people come and go; this repeating cycle of memories, old and new, is the last profound thought I had before losing myself within the empty strands of time itself. I am so lost in my dreams as time moves forward that this very moment takes its shape as if that cycle never began. We stand eye to eye, inhale to exhale, the same old tales we thought we knew so well when we, in fact, never knew or understood them at all. With a last look upon each other, our eyes stared deeply into the very core of our souls. The stories are way too real and yet so vastly different between us. We see that our blessings, once so virtuous, is now concealed in jagged, shattered glass, consumed with detest. The anticipation of a joyous ending had departed hence. The stories end had laid its path before me. Our vastly different tales in this cycle shared the very same fate. We both took our final breath, and this is a story in itself with fear in facing death. The only thing we ever acknowledged to feel and be real in our lives was only a matter of minutes. It was then, at last, that our stories finally read the same as we drifted into the endless sea of thoughts with nowhere to be. A place where the words never mattered in the stories and tales were left untold.
The novel slowly closes as it flips through the last few pages left blank; as we drift into an eternal slumber where we don't have to stay awake, the epilogue gave closure. We know, at last, the book was read. It's such a shame we were too late, the silence is now so loud it's deafening, but at least we can see it honestly one time for all that it is, and we can hear the most beautiful song ever written as we fade away into a void of black where we all may now see the light in it all. The same old story we always tell, but we never wrote in ink.

Author's Note

Ignore mistakes I'm fairly new to writing but thanks for checking it out