Love is not always as it is written

Once I met a young man of my age, but unlike me, he had great success. I do not remember exactly how or why I started talking to him, but I have to thank him for such time as it has become a great friend. Among our many conversations, I asked the cause of his success, his response was amazing and incredible at the same time, here’s what happened.


In his younger days, while my friend was still at college, he found that passion that led him to become famous: writing stories, poems and stories. He loved reading, but he wanted to stop being a just reader and wanted to become a creator of stories.

He began writing short stories, which he liked showing to his friends, they gave him feedback with constructive criticism, and sometimes destructive. He soon realized their mistakes and corrected. His friends spoke wonders of his stories and soon, other school mates were interested in their work. The passion for writing grew and that obliged him to open a blog, the number of followers was not what he expected; angry, he stopped writing for weeks, shouted to the four winds, hit the ground, cried and was about to leave school. His desire to have followers soon diminished when he realized that he liked to write for love and not to satisfy people.

Just at that moment, in which he stopped worrying about what others might think of his writings, the magic happened. What he published in his blog, became instantly into real facts, real stories. Stories of drama and romance, horror and comedy. He soon realized the situation and when he did, his dark feelings arose. He wrote fantasy and science fiction, and among those stories, he wrote what led him to an autograph event of his own book. He published several novels and compilations of short stories, he was rich, famous, but never happy, always there was a gap that stole her dream, which took away the appetite and took him away from his family. It was perhaps his greed, his pride, his vanity or simply their lack of love that edged him to loneliness. In those days, he decided to write a story in which he met a person who soon would became his friend. I remember that that post on his blog had just a few visits.

Later, I realized that he was putting me off, I asked once for his love life, but then I was sorry, because that made him and alcoholic, which then led him inti anger and isolation. And he wrote little, perhaps the last thing he published was about a beautiful woman, whom I had the pleasure to meet. May have been his lover, his girlfriend or his wife, but wrapped in tears, anger and sadness, the woman who had started like a charm, was transformed to be a horrible and merciless lady, a character who almost ends up killing his creator.

It was unbearable to see him in the way I saw it, lying on the floor, pleading for an end, bathed in a cold sweat, trembling with fear, afraid to go to sleep, but also the fact of having to waking up frightened him. The only choice left was to return everything as it had begun. It was hard to convince him at first, but perhaps was already lost in his grief that he was indifferent to do something or not.

Maybe it took six months to write his autobiography, sentencing at the end that everything would return to how it was before getting lost in fame.


Since then, what he writes does not become real, or at least that is what it is believed.




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