Thoughts of an Unborn Child

They say that a story is the reflection of the writer. That somewhere the writer hides, voicing in whispers, eyeing the papyrus world through his real eyes, feeling the characters like a real man, often mistaking himself for a god who could rigthly play with the destinies of people he created. They couldn't be more wrong because by the time the last page turns, the last letter scribbled, and the walls broken, the writer ends up becoming the reflection of the story. The reflection of the very fabric that he created! It is hard to believe that the writer doesn't choose a story, but its the story who chooses the writer. It chooses him, pulls him down into a labyrinth of a non-existent world promising salvation, sometimes even to the limits of threatening his very foundations of belief, distorting his views of reality - and like an angry child craving attention - mingling it with illusion. The journey begins through places unseen, of people unborn, of fates twisted, of lives fabricated, of moments relived, and of actions performed. Time and matter loose themselves into that world, all that remains is a writer pregnant with a story that slumbers in the womb of his spirit, and with each moment it grows real, palpable. It rises like a fire, devouring the man and mind and feeds on it. Through those ashes, arrives that moment of realization which ironically, doesn't resemble the joy of birth; it is the unspoken, forever acknowledged pain of a mother who stands on her door watching her married daughter leave her courtyard forever.
      Then a story is born; the writer, reborn.