HiroXV
Active member
- Joined
- Dec 15, 2024
- Messages
- 73
- Points
- 33
When I see an incomplete story, I feel a strange emotion.
I wouldn’t know how to describe it exactly; it’s a peculiar mixture. Partly bitter, partly sweet—it mingles on my tongue.
When I see an incomplete story, it’s like looking at ruins before me. Sometimes I come across stories that were never finished, maybe with only the prologue and a couple of chapters written. I like reading those stories, finishing them even though they’re unfinished. I like when characters, plot twists, and events are introduced, even if they are destined to fade with the story’s fate.
It stirs a peculiar melancholy, but in a way, it also evokes a sense of sacredness. When I read an unfinished story, I imagine its possibilities, the worlds that could have been.
Partly, I think it’s also because of my love for regret as a feeling. Regret is something so complex, a continuous melancholy that digs into your heart. At the same time, those unfinished stories evoke the same sensation in me: regret for what could have been.
It’s like looking at an unfinished temple, surrounded by plants and creeping vines. It’s something distant, but a flame once burned within it. Long ago, someone hoped to complete that work. I think that’s the part that strikes me the most.
I wouldn’t know how to describe it exactly; it’s a peculiar mixture. Partly bitter, partly sweet—it mingles on my tongue.
When I see an incomplete story, it’s like looking at ruins before me. Sometimes I come across stories that were never finished, maybe with only the prologue and a couple of chapters written. I like reading those stories, finishing them even though they’re unfinished. I like when characters, plot twists, and events are introduced, even if they are destined to fade with the story’s fate.
It stirs a peculiar melancholy, but in a way, it also evokes a sense of sacredness. When I read an unfinished story, I imagine its possibilities, the worlds that could have been.
Partly, I think it’s also because of my love for regret as a feeling. Regret is something so complex, a continuous melancholy that digs into your heart. At the same time, those unfinished stories evoke the same sensation in me: regret for what could have been.
It’s like looking at an unfinished temple, surrounded by plants and creeping vines. It’s something distant, but a flame once burned within it. Long ago, someone hoped to complete that work. I think that’s the part that strikes me the most.
