The Chronicles Of Sara

My name is Sara and I am a story. I know humans find it so easy to judge us; you say this is boring, this is a drama or even this is spam. You classify and generalise with no remorse. Every story is the child of a feeling, a human feeling. If every human feeling should be respected, even need and greed, then so should be every story. Even spam. The fact that I'm defending spam and that I can relate to them does not make me one! Oh, I am no spam! Let me prove it..

My story started few weeks ago in the mind of a writer. I was just an idea back then, I didn't even have a name. During that previous life of mine, I got stuck in that mind — thought I would never make it out. I kept watching other ideas as they grew and became stories. Some of them got written some of them forgotten. Not all who were written were published.

I was desperately awaiting the day he would write me, but I think I was one of his favourite stories. He just kept thinking of me, talking to me, raising me. For a long while I was his secret.

He wanted me for himself.

In time, I started to like him and I got used to his messed up mind. I made a home out of that messy place, and I made friends too. My friends were mostly the writer’s other ideas, but they usually didn’t stick around for long. They came, they grew and they went free.

But then there are the mathematical and electrical formulas that he has in his mind. God! how I hated them at first. They are so arrogant. They think they are always right. Actually... they are always right and that made everyone else hate them. But after awhile I adapted and started to get along with them. They found some amusement in my ignorance, and I found their random and irrelevant information kind of funny too.

As I got to know the writer better, I started to like him. I had the opportunity to communicate with every thought he had and every choice he made. Even the ones that turned out to have bad consequences. He considered them mistakes but he never regretted them. He is proud of every single one of us. Or maybe he is proud of himself for having us? It’s really hard to tell even from inside his mind.

I don't think he knows the answer either.

One day he called me. “Hey, Sara! It’s your time!” We started talking and discussing every detail of mine. He was nice to me and listened to my wishes and requests--even the weird ones. It was a long, magical night. He blamed me at first for keeping him awake, but then he said he was enjoying our special night more than I could imagine. We talked for hours and hours and that led to me becoming the good story that I am. Well at least we both think I am.

As he was proofreading me, I helped him notice the typos and the parts that needed some improvement. At some point he said, “Do you know why I called you Sara? In Arabic, Sara is a feminine adjective to describe someone who makes you happy and gives you joy. For all this time when you were my idea you were my Sara, mine alone. But tonight, once I push the “publish” button you will be everyone’s Sara. Then it’s your time to shine.”

I fell in love with him. I wanted to stay his Sara forever. The idea of being published, the same idea that I was impatiently waiting for and excited about, suddenly felt scary. Maybe I didn’t belong out there. Maybe no one would appreciate me like he did. Surely no one will love me as he did, but would humans even like me?

While he was pushing that button that changed my life forever, I tried to stop him--to tell him a last word. I wanted to tell him that I loved him and that I was sorry for not showing it earlier. I wanted to ask him so many things about my new life and how to make the best out of it, but it was already too late. That moment was the start of my life in the other world. The public one, a world where there’s no safe spot and no place to hide.

Rescaled from this Photo

Hello world! My name is Sara and I’m a post now. The writer has just posted me to Steemit. I don’t really understand why they chose this name for it. I think they should’ve called it “drop it” instead of “steam it” because that’s how it feels. I feel like a drop of rain falling from the clouds. One of million drops falling at the same time. I look up and see younger generations of drops falling after me. But wait, I’m looking at the wrong direction here. If I’m going down, that’s where I should be looking.

When I look down, my worst fear becomes a reality. I’m going to fall into the ocean! I’m going to be lost in the sea and have no effect on it. It won’t even feel my existence. I won't make any impact at all. It will be like I never existed. What can be worse than that?

I look below and there’s this countdown that says something is going to happen in seven days. All I know now is that it’s not something good. Right next to that frightening countdown, there’s my value and for now it says zero. What? He didn’t even upvote me? I hate him for that for a second, but I remember he doesn’t like upvoting his own stories because he thinks they should get whatever they can earn, no more. I respected that way of thinking when I was in his mind but now that I am the story it doesn’t feel the same.

But maybe he did the best he can by writing me and making me who I am. Asking for more would be just greedy. So if he did his part and now it’s my turn, what am I supposed to do now? How can I avoid being lost in the ocean?

Yet just when I am so confused and helpless, an upvote comes to me. He tells me he is an autovote, and that many more are coming after him. That gives me some comfort, especially when my value is going higher.

Oh no! The wave of votes has stopped, I am lost again, a drop of rain in wet weather. Unless you take a good look, you would think we’re all the same. I must work hard for votes to come. I have to attract readers, but how? I keep screaming, “Hello! Can anybody hear me? Over here! Please, I’m scared! Help!

When nobody responds, I start to panic. I try to talk to the other drops around me but none of them is listening. Every single one is too into her own situation to think about others.

What is the writer doing? When I was in his mind, I used to check up on him whenever I got bored. Now I have no idea what he’s thinking. Wait! He’s come back to me!. He noticed some typos and has come to fix them. God! How I missed his touch on my letters and words. He doesn’t say a word, but the fact that he is here means a lot to me. He didn’t give up on me.

Now he is leaving, but there is a typo he forgot. I try to tell him but he doesn’t listen this time. So now I’m really on my own, my time is running out, I have a typo and I’m falling towards the ocean.

A few moments pass, and, I get my first comment. It’s so long and nice that I keep reading it over and over again. It makes me smile and keeps me company. It’s good to have someone to talk to in such situations.

The writer comes back to reply. Now I have two comments. I figure this is how not to get lost in the ocean. I will use the comments and build a boat that will make me float on the salty water. Comments and replies keep coming, as do upvotes. But upvotes don’t matter to me anymore. Only comments.

The best comment ever comes when a friend gives him a Tip! That one counts as two comments and an upvote. Good for him! He receives some SBD thanks to me, but I am the one saved by that tip. Every comment counts and my boat is almost finished but so is my time.

I’m very close to the ocean.

These are exciting moments; so much is at stake. There’s nothing I can do but be myself, but there’s also no way I can sit back and relax. Time isn’t in my favour. I hate time. It’s the worst part of this new life of mine. Three days and I hate it already. How do humans adapt to such an evil thing?

Now that I’m about to be lost forever all I want is to say my last words. Even if nobody is going to hear them, I want to speak up anyway. I want to tell every human out there to respect us, appreciate us, and treat every post as his own. If only because every post has a writer and that writer is a human being. Every human being should be loved and so should his story, which is a reflexion of the story-teller. You might find us imperfect but so are you. That’s all I have to say.

I’m not prepared to be gone but I have to pretend that I am.

What? I’ve been resteemed by a Steemian! It’s like she heard me, liked me, and saved me. She gave me a new life by putting me on top of her blog. Thanks to her, I understand the term “Steemit” better now. She did “steem” me up. I was a few inches from the ocean, and now I’m high enough to stay a few more days in the air. I’m still going down, but I think I can make it this time. I can collect a few more comments to build my boat.

You might think I’m using the comments or taking advantage of them but in reality they are enjoying it at least as much as I am. Imagine you have a musician friend. Wouldn’t you ask him to sing for you? Wouldn’t you encourage him to challenge himself, and give you something more beautiful every time? You’re getting free entertainment for sure, but you’re also helping him do what he’s meant to do. Comments are meant to give us company and help us float on the ocean’s surface.

Source

It is one day before the countdown ends and my boat is finished. I’m finally safe. I enjoy the moment. Falling down from the sky, the very thing that was frightening me for six days, actually became fun when it wasn’t deadly anymore. I can understand now why humans love the concept of flying. You all have dreams and wishes about it. Some of you have tried. My writer has always wanted to skydive, but he never had the chance. That gives me one more reason to enjoy the moment while it lasts.

Reaching the surface of the ocean and floating on it without fear of drowning or being lost in it is a real relief. Today is the most peaceful and joyful day of my life as a post. I have no idea what will happen tomorrow when the countdown ends, but I’m sure I will survive it. I’ve survived a lot already, and it’s all thanks to my writer who made me who I am. I’m sure he’s proud of me now. I wish I could see his happy face smiling at me, but I can at least imagine it, and that’s enough to cheer me up.

“What's good never lasts”. I always found this a subjective negative thought until I lived it. I made it to safety but I still can't feel any good about it. My own success can't seem to distract me from the bigger picture any longer. Favoritism and unfairness are just too obvious to miss.

We always think we are the center of the universe, we focus on our issues, we think we're the only victim out there even when our problems are nothing compared to what others are struggling with.

Now that I have absolutely no issue, my whole life is flashing back in front of my eyes but with more clearance then the way I lived it. I can see much more than my feelings and thoughts. It's like a slow motion replay of my story where I can see all the details I missed, ignored or didn't give enough attention to.

I can see the thoughts that didn't become stories. I can feel their disappointment and resentment. I can hear their last words, their last screams and their last calls for help. I can see the stories that didn't get written, and those who got lost when they were still drafts. Some of them were my favourites. Some of them were even better then me, I admit, but they couldn't make it and I could. What's the justice in that?

I can see the other drops that didn't have enough comments to build their boats. That's the saddest story ever, because they were so close and they didn't lose hope until the last second. I too was few minutes away from being lost. I'm not more worthy. I was just more lucky.

It tears me apart to see these countless drops falling everywhere around me and lost in vain. I can't take it anymore.

What makes it even worse is that there are some other stories getting a giant ship the minute they are dropped. I'm not saying they don’t deserve it, but, if these things exist, why don’t other worthy stories have them? The injustice of this world, like the previous one, is too obvious.

I can't do anything about it now or at least I don't know what I can do about it in the little time I still have here. But I swear, in the next world I'm about to move in, I will do whatever I can to make things fair and just. Even if I'll have to sacrifice my own comfort for it, even if I'll have to sacrifice my own existence for it. Even if I won't live long enough to see things changing. I'll just start the change and leave it for the generations that will follow.