Northe
Bird of Broken-Wings
I suppose this was always meant to come. My hand has been itching for something for so long, I only hope this will satisfy it.
Hey there, I am Northe. I write. Kind of. Sometimes my brain renders me unable to work on my actual projects, so it decides to invent something entirely new. These new things rarely stick longer than a week until I’m back to the things I really want to work on, but there’s times when the new thing becomes an entire project.
But, this isn’t about those projects. This isn’t about what sticks and what doesn’t. This is about me. My stupid, annoying, overly-complicated brain. And the stupid little stories it decides to come up with. Maybe I’m doomed to write dead-end stories and plots that vanish into oblivion.
Nothing here has an ending. Nothing has an overarching plot. Nothing has a reason to exist. Nothing exists within the texts except for hidden silence and meanings unknown to the writer themself. Who even is the writer? Is it me? Is it my consciousness? Is it that voice who’s always whispering and wondering? Is it the characters themselves? Are they begging for someone to make meaning of their pitiful lives? Well, I’m the wrong person. I don’t understand the meaning in my own life, so how could I ever create one?
Windows and Mirrors. Windows into my soul. Mirrors of my life. Windows into worlds vastly different from our own. Mirrors of the world in which we live and breathe. Windows and Mirrors.
—
A collection of short stories, poems, other random things.
Index:
Story Number - Segment of the Story - Size of Story
0 Placeholder.
Hey there, I am Northe. I write. Kind of. Sometimes my brain renders me unable to work on my actual projects, so it decides to invent something entirely new. These new things rarely stick longer than a week until I’m back to the things I really want to work on, but there’s times when the new thing becomes an entire project.
But, this isn’t about those projects. This isn’t about what sticks and what doesn’t. This is about me. My stupid, annoying, overly-complicated brain. And the stupid little stories it decides to come up with. Maybe I’m doomed to write dead-end stories and plots that vanish into oblivion.
Nothing here has an ending. Nothing has an overarching plot. Nothing has a reason to exist. Nothing exists within the texts except for hidden silence and meanings unknown to the writer themself. Who even is the writer? Is it me? Is it my consciousness? Is it that voice who’s always whispering and wondering? Is it the characters themselves? Are they begging for someone to make meaning of their pitiful lives? Well, I’m the wrong person. I don’t understand the meaning in my own life, so how could I ever create one?
Windows and Mirrors. Windows into my soul. Mirrors of my life. Windows into worlds vastly different from our own. Mirrors of the world in which we live and breathe. Windows and Mirrors.
—
A collection of short stories, poems, other random things.
Index:
Story Number - Segment of the Story - Size of Story
0 Placeholder.
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