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The Cycle Of Dead Writers (Bloggers)

The suffocating pain was travelling up to his chest. Today was a lot more harder than yesterday. He didn’t even possess the strength to fight it.

It’s been weeks without a fire. Without a spark to keep him going. Sometimes, it was the fear. The fear to suddenly become invisible that prompted him to write.

How did he get to this phase of a life draining experience? Well, it’s complicated. He sought help from the wisest places. He sought shelter from the strongest troop. But none offered him the solution to his problems.

Last week, George died trying to publish his last book. He breathed his last the moment he gave up. The other week, it was Sarah who died in the cyber cafe. She had given it all to stay alive but like they say, Death is inevitable.

And now he could sense he was death’s perfect target. He lay shivering from the piercing cold. His hazel eyes were fading and his fingers were too weak to tremble.

He called onto his heir. “Gather all my books and keep them safe for me,” he said. “It’s my time.”

His son shook his head and crumbled down in tears. He looked at his father with tears in his eyes. His father was yet to know the hard truth.

“Dad, the moment you die, your books fade away with you too. Everything you have built will go with you too. Every word you have written will be forgotten,” his son replied with tears traveling down his cheeks.

Stephen looked at his son with despair. There should be more to all his efforts to make a good story. There must be more to all his works and publications.

“Now, look, print them over and over again. Share them to the neighborhood. I can’t go like this. I can’t leave a failure,” he instructed his son.

Peter raced to the library where all the books were protected. His father was right, it was his time. The books could sense his drifting spirit and were fading away already.

He grabbed the books he could save and raced down to the printer. His father’s efforts must be preserved. His legacy should be worshipped.

And just as he got to the printer, the last of the books faded away. He cried out aloud and slumped on the hard floor. For he knew his father was gone.

His mind voyaged to his fathers desktop. He remembered his father wrote on a website he called his blog.

Yes, it survived. Something about his great father survived. But alas, his good readers were leaving. They were suddenly fleeing the one blog they cherished.

Maybe it was time to give up. It was time to admit that his memories would never be preserved. People would always leave when you can’t deliver anymore.

And Peter buried his father and on his tombstone, he inscribed the words

“Here lies a dead writer and a forgotten blogger.”


What do you think of my story? I find it really amusing and definitely lacking solid description.

I tried to describe the pain of being an author, writer or a blogger. Sometimes, the work we out in aren’t much appreciated. The Internet is solely based on what we write and publish everyday yet, our significance is still much doubted.

The worst pain is the disappearance of every writers good works after he or she quits or goes to the great beyond.

I think we deserve better than that….!

Tag An Underrated Great Blogger/Writer!

12 thoughts on “The Cycle Of Dead Writers (Bloggers)”

  1. “To see a world in a grain of sand
    And a heaven in a wild flower,
    Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
    And eternity in an hour.
    A robin redbreast in a cage
    Puts all heaven in a rage.
    A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons
    Shudders hell through all its regions.”

    -William Blake

    SMiLes Dear Annabel

    William Blake Who Is World Renown
    Among Many ‘Group Think’ Parts of The World Now

    Died A Pauper And Was Largely Mocked By Folks
    Not Able to Understand The Depths of His Mind and

    Metaphors While He Lived For How True it is Greatest

    Human Imagination And Creativity is Located Somewhere

    in the Precipice of

    Heaven and

    Hell

    Unrequited

    Souls Ever Reaching

    More To Be Loved or

    To Forget About the Same…

    Breath of Original Art Rarely has
    Close Good Bedfellow FRiEnDS…

    Yet New Art’s Echo May Return Evermore

    Far Longer As Ravens Rise and Doves Fall

    KiSSinG Each Other Way up Down RiSinG Again..:)

    Like

  2. I really felt this. I could literally see it all playing out in my mind’s eye.
    It’s a great story, and it’s really true. Writers need more appreciation. There’s so much pressure to keep going on, because if you stop just for a moment, you month be forgotten.
    Beautiful post.

    Like

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