Blog for Nameless-Value

novel, essay, poetry, criticism, diary

Novel Orders Me to Write it, behind it, There’s Love Screaming to Me


Love is back to back with hate.
Love hopes itself to be ideal, but it often is drifting to all around the externally unknown road in requiring newly valued thing discovering accumulating selfishness, coz ones loving mutually hardly can be aware of their act to other ones.
It disrespects and disregard anything but their interested own things.


Everything which doesn’t fit for enchanted item or sort of favorite things must be neglected, hence other all never connected ones with some couple’s selfish ardent affirmation gets to be accumulated only with resentment, around own infeasible appearance to be in real love. Love opportunity must call envy and jealousy, but its impulsive acts at anther phase can get us so eased, even if somebody is so superior, that one’s mind satisfied emotion is completely other matter, that one or all ones as sort of the one would be so seen even, in conclusion human’s happiness consists in just private wish’s meeting, anybody could be aware of its thing.


All these uncrossed all distinct angle to view the world makes so diverse meant value is offered to all of us.


All these unrealized wishes’ screaming, never fulfilled love never burnt out embers are drifting to and fro, its incomplete fulfilling is turned to screaming to all around the space these are drifting.


In my brain, reverbs are heard to my ears subtly but gradually their voice or sound make them so unpleasantly pressed to our mind, they could never be taken so lightly to anybody, dregs would be piled to deep inside of our minds.


My memory around love and now hope to love desperately is crawling up among the ambiguous dullness of spiritual ruin’s air.


Hence, written thing as novel are infinitely drifting in never vanished screaming as if the appearing persons of the novel, their imbalanced echo commands me to write another completed novel and mobilizes me soon to address with it.


Words written by authors mean their soul undigested propositional ejaculation emitting every resentment and their scream’s aftermath must never be easily eliminated from our mind.


Unforgettable memory would be similar to these things, around own love consequences or sometimes momentary pleasantly joyful echo made by all witnesses or onlookers to that love, but their interest and curiosity must include painful memory’s persistent chase to their minds.


These discording co-existence makes us never to understand world itself so well more and more, world would be misty surrounded by murkily stagnant air convection. Dismal atmosphere manages that field with audiences.


All assorted emotions naturally are mobilized to come together, all things are half spontaneously and half forcibly react synchronically, that aspect in this way step by step call a story as described at a novel, it spontaneously forms its prototype. All infeasibly indigested elements are petitioning their claim to writers urging them to write fixed image, but originally that sort of assured thing might have been only an illusion.


Eventually that sort of authors’ mission is often suddenly interrupted by unknow power making authors so disappointed, but their mission fulfilling can seldom be completed.


Essence to become novel in idea by authors is just similar to that men follow the ideal women at any place in the world. Some are successful but others are never so.


For making their seed to life stocked in ideal woman, their intention to leave their descendants is consistently shuffled with natural selection, nature’s cruelty must subdue all creature includes human.
Either to women, their ideal guy whose children they want to be pregnant must be the one whom they cravingly have waited for.
All developing and consequences are seen just Lord’s whim, we could never have any impression to all those things but it.


Only at the moment we need nothing so hopefully, some unpredictable never bad outcome would be outputted to us, but it could never linger for long time.


Satisfied incarnation as the exact presence could be referred either to both our life’s really met thing and our inseminated ideal idea on our minds in contradictory meeting would be required to be written, that phase must be disclosed on our mind’s upper surface. In it, all unwritten poems, novels are potentially present.


Authors mind travel must never cease, at a rate, we are all dispatch to leave our descendants to the far future, these hidden missions exist in both life itself and its meaning we attempt to make ourselves clear in our own mission feeling.


Our unconsciously realized echo means it, perhaps.
Sometimes by some authors, sharpened described masterpiece come up to our deepened part of mind.


Writing work must have had expiration sometime, but in writing, any authors must have never known it so surely.


Either its thing must be the notice to another work’s rebirth in sometime in our future, its omen must be awoken by some so vigilant authors sometimes, never always so.


All members’ change in turn according to generation’s difference means always premonition to next remarkable newly appearing presence, one individual’s death alludes it premonition to new anticipated life’s coming. But few ones only can be noticed to it so subtly, its timing to know so well are hardly feasible to anyone.


Time must convey it, it means all death and birth as applied to all concept or evaluation index or so, in at a rate circulation like reincarnation.
And it means never stopping to change the range of our perceptive awareness, only a few ones can be noticed to it or few ones can be so, that range is so amoeba transformation.


All declinations and indifference are set contrastively to all accordance and harmony as if coincidence appears so rarely seen in all human, human thing is anytime bound only to things never making us so bored with arbitrary devise to offer the trick or stimulus.


Although, we can discover some never replaceable things sometimes and we think it must be preciousness, it means our auditory capability meeting to some unforgettable scream, it sometimes is so silent voice or never talking suppressive leaving or so, either.
It must be somebody’s silent wish or hope only with breathing.


But all mind reverberation must be so private, its thing only is meant so much to us, and it can identify us as accepting coincidental appearing of something and it pleasantly turned to love realization.
It’s as well as for meeting cloud nine, we live and survive for being assured of its meeting every single day with our own mind individually.
(Sep. 9th, 29th. 2019)