Introduction
Is To Dream a Sin?
The portrait of a man with nothing
Written by George Louis
There resides, no matter whether you agree or not, it always is inside us: the dwelling of evil at its worst and dread. Though you may opt to disagree, which, most of the time is true, or so I presume, it reigns on all beings like the impeccable hearts of an open desert. The quality of living, so, then, is weakened, which is for as long as we do not allow ourselves to instill the least bit of Significant Change. Thus, it is all up to us to bring upon ourselves the absolute and sane commitment to regulate the evil that dwells deep within us, though not all of that, which might, after all, is but a folly of the highest kind. Yet, with the assessment of evil, with its proper beckoning, could turn fruitful, if not much as you might have expected rightfully so, it might still lift the veil of agony and animosity.
The following narrative is written mostly from a first-person perspective. Yet, there are various times there is a notable deviation from the above-said first-person POV for creative purposes. There are also numerous times there occurs this rigorous shift in scenes, which might seem a little uncomfortable for the reader to comprehend at first. But in time, the reader will supposedly adjust himself to the rhythm.
The following the reader would find a little abusive, and even at times boring with all sorts of allegories and metaphors. Many a time, he may feel a bit overwhelmed with words, but it is intended to allow the reader to exfoliate all barriers of words with respect to what could be rather than what is. Therefore, it is wanted of the reader to implore insights of the proses with regard to himself only, since the general meanings of the proses would kill what is meant intrinsically. And so, the reader would find himself out of all the barriers much sooner.
Also, last but not least, the following is purely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters appearing in this work are a work of fiction. No reader is allowed to publish this work, either in printed or digital formats, without the knowledge of the author. If found so, anywhere outside of inkitt, it is the responsibility of the reader to bring the matter to the notice of the author.
“It is always about us, right? No matter what, it is always that peaked narcissism that stands out for all of us, though we may try to disguise the same in many forms. Where does it all turn us out of fuel to turn us into relentless agents of Hell itself? Or where are we about demanding ourselves route all the way to turn out in the same direction? Where does it all end? If there truly exists an end at all…” and just like so, immense and intelligible thoughts, sane to comprehend, flew into his mind as he sat, drinking his coffee, with the fairness about his eyes now ultimately fading, which he so much resisted all his life. “This life,” he guessed, “is full of inconsistencies and unorthodoxy. Where am I gonna go from here on?”
“Life just goes on, anyway,” he resented as he let his thoughts come by.
