Short Story: John only ever smiles after finishing a new piece of his writing
John was a young man who was lost in the world of his youth. He didn't know who he was. He didn't know who he wanted to be. He didn't know what he wanted to do. He could never figure out his place in all of this.
Why was he born? Why was he alive? Was there any point in his existence?
As John grew older, he became even more lost, but now he was more lost from his knowing who he really was, and from having the courage to be this person, anyway.
John's fears of the World and of himself increased, until he had a hard time even living from day to day in that World. John seemed to grow further away from his being of his real self every day, except in his writing, that is.
John had only one outlet, his writing, but even this he had little confidence in it.
John thought that it, his writing, was mostly just a waste of time.
He realised though, in some way more deeply, that it gave to him a certain satisfaction, (both inwards and outwards), and which was gained from him doing nothing else.
John only ever obtained this type of connective glow between his inner and outer selves from his writing.
John's poetry attempts, for example, he thought were amateurish at best, but he kept to this, because the combinative nature his of connecting words together, in a uniquely individualistic way, gave him some cold comfort, at least this was so, after he had completed a new piece.
John also liked to write short fiction pieces, with some type of a spiritual message, or moral to them.
Here is one of his tales:
The old Zen master Fasho Serta, was getting very old, and even a bit forgetful. He knew that this was only his mind, which was an attachment given to him to work with in this current life of his, though.
A student came up to him, and asked him one day then, what the old master had eaten for breakfast, that very morning.
Old Fasho scratched his already bald head, and he thought long and hard about what it was that he had actually eaten, that morning, that was if he had eaten anything at all, that morning. Maybe his young student was trying to trick him, or to befuddle his mind, even more that it was already.
Old Fasho knew that the monks all got up very early every morning, and meditated for a couple of hours first. He did remember his doing this, but what he had had for breakfast was gone altogether, it seemed for now, from his current memory pools.
Old Fasho then answered his student in another way.
He said to him quietly,
" The love in any situation belies the actual event, in that the event is mere shadowings crossing over that love, but the love always shines brightly under all experiences. The fact I forget what I had for my breakfast this morning in no way negates the power of the sun still shining within me, and which these answers flow from. Old age comes upon us all in its own good time, and even you, will be old like me one day, my son."
After writing such a tale, John would feel energised, once more again. His depression had lifted for a bit, and he was now once again, for a short time only of course, immersed within life by his writing, about that life.
And so John, smiled to himself, and put down his pen, and decided to submit his writing to Persona Paper.
Image Credit » This photo belongs to me the writer, and was taken by me, on my smartphone.