It is simple and content with being itself. It is small and tells of beginnings.
This story that I hope to read I am also writing. It has many pages and tells of many things.
The hero grows and has many flaws. I believe this makes him relatable.
The earlier pages are written in a shaky voice, that which hasn't yet learned itself.
The paragraphs here expound the beauty of every day, of every rare starry night, every kiss.
That stops eventually.
He falls in love. Too many times in my opinion, but that's the way it's written.
Eventually he will get married, settle down. But it seems to the author's mind unnatural that the story end this way. It fits at the end like a bad toupee, awkward and at an angle.
But he is at a block.
Maybe he could make it a choose your own ending book. Let the reader decide.
But thats as much a cop-out as the picket fence ending.
The hero of our story yearns for an end drenched in flames and beautiful song. But the author is of a different mind.
He years for the peace of an end rocking gently away in the force of the moon pulling the ocean and the earth pulling on the moon and black hole at the center pulling everything.
There will always be this conflict between this creator and his creation. This life that began with a small, sure line is now twisted and tangled in its own paraphrases and ellipses.
Because of this, the story will always come short of its true potential, and the words will always
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