We need to get up again from where we have fallen

All the stories are mine, starring me, the other and the others, I created all the characters down to the last detail, and then I destroyed them without a care. Just like that? Like, well. Yes, that's emulating God! And what was he like? Was he different from me?

There are some poets who, at a very young age, wrote poems that profoundly influenced world poetry. They heard the voice of poetry at the age of thirteen or fifteen. Rimbaud, Yesenin are such poets, for example. I think this can be explained by a natural inclination to sing poetry, talent. Or beauty of voice for a singer. Isn't this also an innate characteristic?

Some have a voice of impressive beauty, others are not predisposed to singing. Like a nightingale and a crow. The same muscular structures in their necks produce vocal vibrations that are pleasing to us in one bird, but we don't like the voice of the other. If a person has a characteristic, shaping it skillfully and expressing it outwardly is undoubtedly a talent.

Talent needs to be cultivated through education and knowledge. On the other hand, mere natural beauty is not art. We can find a waterfall, a rock or the colors in a mussel shell very beautiful. Some natural beauties take our breath away. But these beauties are not works of art.

Anyway back to my point, I put them in my story to get to know me, then I judged them, they died. They're probably all in my hell, yes it's scary! But they wouldn't be if it wasn't for me. I created their facial expressions, I created their destiny, I didn't name their end, good or bad, I just decided and they died. Then everything disappeared, them and me, everything.

Yes, I am resurrected again, this time with a burnt face and scorched hands, I cling to life, I am no longer the god in this story, I don't want to be. Only a few feelings remain in my damaged soul, a little fear. Wait a minute, no! I can't get up, I can't stand up, where are my feet? Anyway, what does it matter for a resurrected man, right? A man can crawl his way. Anything can happen to me in this story now. I don't have to worry about whose hell I'm going to. I'm just crawling.

When we forget that happiness is in the light within ourselves and start looking for it in someone else's darkness, we are doomed to be lost in the darkness. The needle of the compass within ourselves It's like we've already broken it and dived into someone else's compass.

Maybe we could have found the right direction if we had looked in front of us, but as the sands of time slowly flowed, we dived in without realizing it, and as someone else's grains of sand accumulated, you continued thinking that time flowed only for someone else. Was it time that was shrinking? Was it your soul? You seem to have lost the needle of the compass within yourself. As long as you look for your own truth in someone else's compass, you will not realize that you are losing your time in someone else's sands.

Then someone comes and lifts me up, he becomes my feet, looking at my burnt face, he takes me by the hand, extinguishes my body with his breath. I'm faster now, first he adds a few sensations. They are strong enough to bring me back to life, but then the sparkle in his eyes revives my soul. But there's a but, because I've done it and I know how it ends.

After that it's death again, but I'm dead now, so I'm braver, whether it's heaven or hell, send me somewhere. You're in control of this story. I'm up for anything.