Brains!

This is based of fact but most of it is fiction:

I wrote a love story, but I tore it up. I didn't throw it away. I spread out the pieces on my bed. There must have been a hundred of them. I thought if I could whisper a few words over them perhaps I would coincidently conjure up some ancient spell and the words would come to life.

I read them all. Bits and pieces of words and sentences. I felt like I was reading a shitty wannabe poem. I hated my self for trying, for believing.

I brushed the little things into a bin, and lay back unfocused my eyes. If I could end right now would I want to? I thought to myself. I often though about things I would never attempt. But it made me feel braver, like I did have will power. Like I was a Viking, not afraid of death and the battle before it.