Creation carries the pain and beauty of the creator.
The Wanderer was at the same spot, behaving as usual. He had met a sorcerer named Laura.
"And it feels like yesterday was a year ago,But I don't wanna let anybody know...'Cause everybody wants the same thing from me now..."he said in a heavy tone, resting his head in his hands.
"You never really mean to disappoint the people around you… but you do,"he added, without looking her in the eyes.
The Wanderer was breaking and cracking the air.Laura, across from him, seemed to be fighting something imminent, invisible.
"Feeling helpless and hopeless is just a slower way of being dead,"she said, softly — almost reporting a sudden wave of that terrible, lethargic anxiety.
"I hate that feeling of detachment,"she continued.
Drugs that increase certain neurotransmitters often help, they say. But it wasn't that simple anymore.
"I need to share my obsession,"The Wanderer said."The self-evaluation process makes me cry.My behavior isn't just annoying — it's limiting.Even those who want to help feel… powerless."
Exclamation marks are little lies.It's hard to be honest — not because of pride, but because he didn't want to disappoint.Whether he was giving up or just asking for help, he couldn't tell anymore. Especially from a stranger.
"It's just a climb with rocks.I'm tired of talking about it.Tired of thinking about it."
The wind brushed against his chest.A hill, the right pace. Something simple. Something real.
Then came a new character.Light. Smart. Witty.Teasing The Wanderer — an absence of abstract concerns.
So rich, so true, so good, that for a moment, he didn't want to float.A truce, tonight. Brought by God and his wave-like sways.
He found a tree, chewed a leaf or two, curled beneath a rock's shadow, and drifted into sleep.A bikini… sunlit skin…An evil witch replaced by a horrible girl.
"Feeling helpless and hopeless is just a slower way of being dead,"he whispered again.Big blocks of horror.
...
"I hear voices from the dead all the time,"he confessed.
At night, they came — the past selves, the ghosts, the might-have-beens.Trusting someone was hard when even you didn't understand your own fog.And if you couldn't trust you… why would they?
"Introduce yourself,"Laura commanded, turning toward him.
"I portray myself with irony.I use dark humor to charm those who try to treat me —people who, deep down, don't want to be conquered."
A spark from his reality escaped.Not filtered through description — but in its essence.The art of the filter lies in asking the right questions.
"By the way," he added,"I forgot to mention: I often suffer from agitated and mixed states."
And just like that,The Wanderer showed himself to her.