It was one that he had for quite some time, this idea. There was abundant excitement, yet he wanted it to be perfect, and it would be. With pen poised, he hesitated before the tip kissed the page. The words flowed as he created his masterpiece of words, and the story came to life. His life was good and he was content, but there was something more that he wanted. This is why he decided to write this story.
His talent for writing was unrivaled and without error. He used words to paint stunning settings of leaf adorned trees and feathery ivory clouds, all set to the tune of birds singing harmoniously. He created roaring, deafening rivers with foam that hugged the edges. He created this magnificent world with mere words, but his prized creation came in a less perfect form. When he created the characters of his story, he made them each with a flaw so that they would have to rely on him, the author. He watched as these characters that he fashioned made mistakes and slowly corrupted the lovely world that he had made for them. There was sadness in his heart as he watched these characters that he made so precisely, distort what he created and become unhappy with their lives and with themselves. You see, the problem was that they had gotten so caught up in the story and had forgotten about him, the author.
With one swift movement of his pen, he could have resolved their problems, fixed their flaws and renewed his creation, but he wanted them to remember him as the author instead of try to correct it themselves. They seemed to forget that he could repair it all with the same pen that he had used to create them. Some of the characters recognized their flaws and let the author restore and heal them, but many became prideful in their own abilities, forgetting that the author wrote those too, and denied his power over them altogether. Power is such a fickle thing. They were just words on a page that the author had chosen to write and had given them the choice to know him in return. How fitting that he communicated with them through words as well; both written and spoken. He had woven his love through the words in his story. Some could see it, yet others could not; they were too focused on the details to be able to see the story. His love was so strong. How could they not see it?
The author knew what to do. He made his own, perfect son a character in the story so that he could show them the author’s love. For the sake of love he wrote his son into the story, but the others did not like this, so they killed him. It was after his death that the characters understood that was the author’s plan all along. His son entered the story to die for them in the ultimate demonstration of the author’s love. They could not deny the author’s love, which renewed his creation, so they turned their eyes on him, the author, and loved him. It was then that he put his pen down, for that was all he desired. His masterpiece was finished. He had painted such a magnificent, beautiful picture with his words, the greatest love story ever written.
Copyright 2014 Jenny Larsson