Capitaine Fantaisie
It’s all just fantasy. I mean, boredom can kill, but the driving force behind it—lack of interest—is its mother. It’s hard to become good at nothing, you know? What’s the story here? Damn, I have no clue. It doesn’t make me happy to not improve, though. Everything I write is distorted by my lack of skill, and the more I think about it, the lazier I get. When is the end of the world, anyway? I mean, why drag things out so pointlessly?
If the world is going to keep spinning, then at least make me immortal, give me all the powers—something! I don’t know, damn it. What’s the point of prolonging a world where I can’t even figure myself out? But hey, don’t worry. Maybe there will be a story to tell. I’ll write as I go, word by word, and it’s funny, isn’t it, how my synopsis accidentally ended up being 666 words long? Or maybe it wasn’t accidental. Maybe it was destiny’s cruel little joke, mocking my inability to finish anything I start.
Every time I sit down to write, it’s like fighting a battle with my own brain. One part of me wants to create something meaningful, something worth remembering. The other part? It’s too busy obsessing over every flaw, every missed opportunity, every word that doesn’t quite fit. And the cycle goes on: the more I try, the more I fail, and the more I fail, the less I want to try. It’s a loop, endless and exhausting, a treadmill of self-doubt that I can’t seem to step off.
And then there’s the world. Don’t even get me started on the world. Every day feels like a rerun of the same bad show, the same tired plotlines, the same inevitable decline. The news is a nightmare. People are either fighting over nonsense or pretending everything is fine when it clearly isn’t. Climate change, wars, injustice—pick your poison. It’s like watching a slow-motion car crash and knowing you can’t do anything to stop it.
But then again, what would I even do if I had the power? Let’s say I was immortal, let’s say I had every power imaginable—what then? Would I fix things? Would I save the world? Or would I just use those powers to escape, to build my own little pocket universe where none of this nonsense exists? Honestly, I’m not sure I trust myself to do the right thing. I’d probably just waste all that power trying to create something perfect, only to watch it fall apart like everything else.
It’s frustrating, you know? Feeling like you’re stuck in a world that doesn’t make sense, with a mind that can’t seem to do what it’s supposed to. Writing, for example—it should be simple, right? Just put words on a page. But it’s never that easy. Every word feels like a risk, every sentence like a gamble. What if it’s not good enough? What if people read it and hate it? What if no one reads it at all?
And yet, despite all that, I keep writing. Why? Maybe it’s because, deep down, I believe there’s still a story worth telling. Or maybe I’m just stubborn. Either way, here I am, pouring my thoughts onto the page, hoping that somehow, some way, it’ll all come together. Maybe it won’t. Maybe this will just be another unfinished project, another half-baked idea that never goes anywhere. But at least I tried, right?
And who knows? Maybe this is the story. Not some grand epic about heroes and villains, but something smaller, quieter—a story about trying and failing and trying again. A story about someone who doesn’t have all the answers, who’s still figuring things out. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s all any of us can really do: keep going, keep trying, keep telling our stories, even when it feels like no one’s listening.
So here it is, my 666-word synopsis. It’s messy and flawed and probably not what you were expecting. But it’s mine, and for now, that’s enough.
