For once there was no fictional land but everyone had a say. Everybody had a voice to wander in each other’s ears and believe as if they were living a life. More fiction, more plurality and more of incidents to be overlooked.
And in these circumstances, a wanderer disguised as human seeking shelter like a shoot in the forests of pine trees. His motive was nothing but to survive in the shadows of life and keep on accepting and mourning over nothing.
His story was none successful, not pleasing anybody around, but he never accepted that nobody accepted him and that mistake he kept on committing. He had nobody but his shadow to share his voice and even in the eyes of beggars, he was a dirt scavenger.
Until one fine morning he denied his motive, he decided to rest and take a stroll. His decision worked magic for he was allowed to lay disguised for immortality. He was quite thereafter, quieter than silence and silent than the silence in the townhall during midnights. He was more of nothing than nothing he was before. His story of being Dumber than voiceless nothing had brought him his best silence he ever wanted and his want went nowhere farther this very time. This unsung hero in his voiceless whisper wept for being the most lonely person in the world being in the world but being a notch higher in being nothing.
And what followed next was no surprise. It was misery out of everything, with his nothingness creating mist all over the place.
He was more than nothing for his life now, an adventure he thought in his mystery, for his story is untold and unsung by people of voice wanderers. Still out of the blue they prosper but never once in the blue moon they come out of where they are, hearing nothing, believing nothing and surviving for nothing.
And so the storyland goes barren…