the masked stories

he wrote but with a dread. there was nothing else he could write about, it was always the same thing .. the same thing. but he dreaded if someone would read it and read him.

from his words , his stories. he didn't want to give that joy , give that satisfaction that his writing meant something. it did , but it shouldn't.

he masked it into layers and layers of deception. only he could peel through it. maybe this too.

he wanted to reveal it only if it was revealed to him. it doesn't work that way.