It’s these hallways that you’re wandering,
Again and again, year after year,
And you’re wondering when they’ll
Finally be destroyed, famished by empty thoughts.
You’re hunting for words, sentences,
Structures that have so far been unknown,
Unused in any deviation, separating you from
The rest of the others.
It makes you feel like being on top of the world,
Special, looking down on everything,
Touched by that divine language
You thought was only yours.
And the worlds are haunting you,
Long hours after midnight when you’re
Typing away, unsure whether you’re
Still dwelling on this side of reality.
Because yes, you’re back in the hallways,
And a thousand pairs of eyes are following
Your every step, watching closely,
Judging bone, blood and faith of yours.
These are the ghosts of writers of old,
Being where stories have been told
For longer than mankind can remember,
Longer than your worlds will linger.
And they’re nodding their approval in silence,
They’re smiling tenderly, they’re accepting your existence,
And so they’ve decided to let you join their ranks,
Let you be grateful to be amongst the dead.
For now, close your eyes, your stories may rest.
Sleep now, dear child, for your ideas are at their best.
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