Dark Dimension 1: Depth of Pen Marks

The dazzling and steady sun welcomed him through the open window of the pitch-black space. Mr. Pen Mark, a once-promising writer, lay in bed and gazed intently at the ceiling. The room was crammed with stacks of books, unfinished paintings, crumpled pages, and half-empty coffee cups. This was the home of an author whose world revolves solely around the world of writing. He is known as a good author and the best selling author in Asia, but they don't know the process of how he is going to be while writing and so that his readers can read, Mr. Pen Mar had always dreamed of becoming a renowned writer. From a young age, he had immersed himself in the magical worlds of books, imagining himself as the creator of captivating stories. His passion for writing was a flame that burned brightly, fueling his creativity and guiding him through the ups and downs of life. But lately, that flame seemed to flicker, its warmth slowly fading away. But his life in his own passion was not easy, his life was so deep in the field of Fine Writing that his own body could not cope and forgot the unfinished chapters in the published books. As he reluctantly dragged himself out of bed, James glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was already mid-morning, yet he hadn't written a single word in weeks. The pages of his latest novel remained untouched, gathering dust on his desk. The once irresistible pull of storytelling had lost its grip on him, leaving him in a haze of confusion. It was hard to get back into the book he was writing, the chapter he started was too deep and it was hard to keep up with his daily life. With a sigh, Mr. Pen Mark wandered into the kitchen and mechanically prepared a cup of coffee. He stared out of the window, watching the world outside come alive. The chirping birds and the rustling leaves held no inspiration for him anymore. The very act of writing, once his solace, had become a burden—a chore that he could no longer find joy in. "What? Do you have any plans to continue the book? There are a lot of readers waiting, do you have any plans?" His manager asked seriously, up until now, he didn't know how to answer that seriously. There was a doubt in his heart right now.  He focused himself on seven sculptures and his characters in the written book. He is lost in words and in idea, he reminisces about the early days of his writing career, when he had burst onto the literary scene with his debut novel. Doubt crept into his mind like a stealthy thief, slowly eroding his confidence. The fear of failure had become an unwelcome companion, whispering doubts and insecurities into his ear. James questioned his own abilities, wondering if his early success had been nothing more than a stroke of luck. He had lost touch with the joy of writing, the pure exhilaration of crafting stories from the depths of his imagination. As the days turned into weeks, James found himself drifting further away from his true passion. His unfinished manuscripts piled up like a monument to his creative stagnation. The blank pages stared back at him, mocking his inability to breathe life into them. "It's been a week, Mr. Pen Marks, just tell me you don't have any plans to continue the book and to finish your contract." The manager said and his mouth still didn't open, his body couldn't talk to other people today. "I'm going to try to upload a new chapter tomorrow" He is unstable right now. But he needed to finish his story. He sat down on the chair and spent time and mind in front of the laptop. The sound of the clock ringing in the four corners of his room was the sound of him pressing the keyboard of the laptop. After sitting in his black swivel chair all night, he finished at seven in the morning. He made a cup of coffee and opened the door on the terrace of his bedroom and stood up while drinking coffee. His phone rang and he just saw it as it sounded, people were looking at him and he was just looking at him. He closed the terrace door and lay down on the bed and looked up at the ceiling and waited for the drowsiness to visit him. Suddenly, a loud knock on his door suddenly awakened his spirit and he walked towards it. He opened it and the manager said "If we can't get you to the book signing, we'll pick you up! You have so many opportunities squandered! We won't let you come back like you used to! We are not here to play! We are here to write and inspire people! Wake up now, Pen Mark!" His manager said angrily and he went into the bathroom to bathe. He wore a pair of old pencils, formerly trouble-free, and had a passion for writing. He stepped onto the stage at his eagerly awaited book signing event, a wave of gratitude washed over him. The room was filled with an enthusiastic crowd, eager to meet the creator of the words that had touched their hearts. Taking a deep breath, he began his speech with a heartfelt expression of thanks. "Ladies and gentle people, I stand before you today with a heart filled with profound gratitude. To each and every one of you who has embraced my book, who has delved into the pages and found a connection, I am truly humbled. Your support, your enthusiasm, and your unwavering belief in the power of storytelling have brought me here today. It is because of you, my incredible readers, that I find the inspiration to put pen to paper and create worlds that come alive. Your feedback, encouragement, and the way you have shared my work with others have given me the strength to keep pursuing my passion. I am deeply grateful for the love and support you have shown me on this journey, and I promise to continue crafting stories that captivate and resonate with each of you. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart." When the long message ended, he sat down to sign his book 1, which he wrote when his life was still happy and lively. As he stepped through the door and crossed the threshold into his home, a wave of melancholy enveloped him. The familiar scent of his room mixed with a subtle air of desolation, as if the walls themselves echoed with the weight of his absence. It was as if the very essence of his being had seeped into the atmosphere, leaving behind an indelible mark of sorrow. However, undeterred by the overwhelming sadness that permeated the room, he mustered the strength to confront it head-on. He knew that the remedy for his weary soul lay within the confines of his creative sanctuary. With determined steps, he made his way towards the corner where his easel stood tall and proud. The once vibrant and lively canvas now seemed to mirror the sombre atmosphere of the room, yet it beckoned him with a quiet insistence. His gaze fell upon the brush strokes, each a testament to his emotions and aspirations, frozen in time. He found solace in the familiar strokes, the amalgamation of colours that danced across the canvas, speaking a language only he understood. In the stillness of the room while sipping a coffee, he allowed himself to lose track of time, his mind diving deep into the recesses of his characters' lives. They were his confidants, his closest companions, whispering stories that only he could hear. Their narratives intertwined with his own, blending reality and fiction, until it became impossible to distinguish where one ended and the other began.  As his fingers delicately traced the outlines of his characters' faces, he found a strange comfort in their presence. Their eyes seemed to hold a glimmer of understanding, as if they too had experienced the ache of longing and the burden of a heavy heart. The intricacies of their expressions, captured in meticulous detail, mirrored his own struggles and served as a reminder that he was not alone in his sorrow. Lost in contemplation, he immersed himself in the world he had created, seeking solace and respite from the harsh realities that awaited beyond the sanctuary of his room. With each stroke of his brush, the weight on his shoulders seemed to lighten, replaced by a sense of purpose and renewal. The colours on the canvas grew bolder, more vibrant, reflecting the rekindling of his spirit.