Sometimes the story doesn’t turn out the way you planned.

Sometimes you can’t reach that final ending.

All that prose and action and build-up ends up falling apart.

You find yourself months later simply dissecting the pieces of the tale and realizing the places you got wrong. The parts that should have been built on. The pieces that should have been discarded.

But ultimately you’ve moved on and shelved the piece.

It’s a part of you and always will be. You tried. You really tried. But some stories will never be finished. It doesn’t mean you had writer’s block. It’s just that sometimes situations don’t allow you continue to build.

Life has this tendency to break.

So you find words you don’t recognize. Storylines that you didn’t realize were so wandering and so inconsequential. Language you once loved that now sounds ridiculous.

The tone and voice and the collective parts are important, even precious. But you have to accept that they never amount to anything. They’re not worthy of sharing. They simply remain a story in the works. Unfinished. Unformed.

Forgotten? Well . . . that remains to be seen.

These echoes—little bumps on the ground—little drops reflecting off the surface of the dark lake—all surrounding you. Good things. Great, in fact. But eventually gone.

Stuck in some half-stage in a stack of other stories.

Close your eyes and you can almost remember. So beautiful, so brilliant.

But that’s what you thought. That’s what you always think. But sometimes, the story isn’t so easily impressed. Sometimes the story eventually reaches a point where it’s bored with you. Where your emotions and desires and goals have all become moot. Where it simply bids you adieu. To you and you and you.

She’ll always be lovely. Those short bits and those long run-ons. The almost-collective core of something that got close to seeing the light of day.

It’s okay to let go. To let it live in another world of your imagination. It had its place and time and maybe it was all written for a reason.

Today, there’s a new tale to tell.

Tomorrow, there will be another.

Yesterday’s story is a lovely reminder of that beautiful sun setting. Hovering and glowing. The kind you want to hug and scoop up and capture and kidnap. But it sets and you find your arms and hands empty wondering where the bright light went.

It remains in your mind. Even if the story has permanently moved on, remnants will always remain with you.

Lovely particles floating around in those lonely parts nobody else can see.