It was a stormy night and the grieving sea was raging with anger at life’s decisions. It was perilous, but the adventure kept him a safe distance from the painful confines of safety. His old hands were shaking, of fear of the tremendous task of leaving a legacy, or the raging sea, and the cold damp weather. He was trying desperately to write on the worn out papers on front of him, but the thunder was too much for him to continue.
He was just staring out of the window unto the storm outside, only imagining himself to be an old captain in a ship under the perils of a storm amidst the sea, thunder, and scared greedy men. He wasn't old, just a troubled man youth in his mid-twenties, and he was perfectly healthy, physically. The thunder put him back from the window to the sofa, where he resumed his mindless staring at the fiery flames.
He did not drink because he believed it stood in the great ways of his own mind, which was perfectly able of magic, even without external chemical stimulation. He knew he was stimulated and overly so in one way or another, for his mind reacted explosively with every big or small thing his eyes were laid upon, and with each explosion a graph of ideas keeps infinitely expanding into a universe of its own, parallel to other previously formed universes, still unresolved and still expanding.
He had to get back to the cottage, despite the fact that the heat was almost blinding his vision. The forest fire was crazily raging, but so was his inclination to get back to his cottage and get chest in which he has put all of things he cherished and gathered throughout the years, but most importantly, the memories, all those journals and diaries written by him and his close friends and lovers. His was losing his memory and the only link to his identity, to reality was the set of papers in that chest, so he thought his life was lost anyways, if he can’t get to the cottage which was already on fire and rescue the chest, the memories.
The sweat was running through his face filled with scratches that he got trying to squeeze through all the tree branches and rough bushes, he’s lost the hair on his arms for the fires of this burning forest. Like a raging predator with fixed eyes upon him, the fire as if intentionally targeting the man, suddenly leaped all around to surround him. Now he was no choice but to do so, as he sees his memories fading with the burning cottage.
His mind prefers those imaginary worlds and events to protect itself from the dulling nature of his safe and quiet home, but turns back to reality when imagination gets too harsh and the day dreams become nightmares, like what always happens.
He pulls back his face from the fireplace, and pushes back the sofa which he realizes was too close to the fire.
He knows he better find a solution to his exquisite but turbulent mind soon, for he was realizing a truth: he is a mad man. But until he find a solution to his dramatic fantasies that are going out of control, he will write a story every day, and give them to the Story Unicorn.
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