Some people are touched by the special magic of story telling. The things of life; like summer showers, rain into words on their heart and they are compelled to capture them.
The thoughts, like butterflies in a garden, dance for mere moments in their psyche and the story teller just may be quick enough to net them and weave a story that speaks to a multitude.
No two stories are the same, even as no two finger prints or snowflakes are the same. Like breathing, to some, stories weave into the universe and float like spider webs to adorn old, deserted barns and mansions on hillsides that the help strive hard to keep from the eye of the master.
A storyteller cannot long suppress this gift lest it mark them in some physical way. Their face; their visage, will take on a strained appearance. The fatigue at resisting a very real urge will come into their dreams and wake them. The sleepless nights will multiply until the writer finally bends to the urge to expell all of these pent up words that scream for freedom on a page.
It matters not if no one reads the words of that storyteller. This event is a purging like none other. Perhaps you'll liken it to a spiritual egg. Once freed of the writer it may stand dormant for decades. It may even be that one other mortal discovers the "egg" and feasts on the meal. That mortal walks away carrying a fragment of what once resided in just one mortal but now colors another.
If a person reads a story and likes it, it's probably because the spirit of one storyteller can always recognize the spirit of another.
Thanks for reading my five minute freewrite!
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