Short Story A Hipster Forced Me To Write

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Why? Why write a story? We think of stories as diaries but they really are flowers and trees. They aren’t really written down, they grow and bloom over time. Different timespans, different forms – different lives. But they all grow. They are the genii, the true spirits of this world and the worlds beyond, not us. They grow within us, beneath the soil that we are, as seeds. They are the living force. We merely tend to them. We can choose to nurture them, steer them, prune them, and even kill them.

We find roses, elegant witticisms. Peony flowers, tales of wisdom and struggle forged in the harshest of winters. Great oaks, the masterpieces that stand tall in our gardens, but even they began as small plants, even the largest of them. Cherry trees, reticent voices at first, but lend them a kind and keen ear and in due time they blossom sweet fruit.

The strangest tree of all takes root in the blackest soil, watered by cruelty, rooted by humility. Mystery is its shade, nurtures and feeds the caterpillar unafraid. It blooms fruits of deceit, the wise crow perches on with clawed feet. The strangest tree is of one name, its home being the human brain.

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