Apples on the wet grass

I think that writers are suffering a lot. If you won't suffer, so how you will write? But not for all it is like that. Some of them tried to write, but all they got, it was just a buble of the soap. I think that people are like apples. A lot of apples on the wet grass. Sun rays are starting to dry all that drops. Sun is rising. The apples are on the grass. A lot of them. On the grass little worm is going. . . Worm in green cold colour. It picks one apple. One the most beautiful apple. The most delicious apple. It is going on that apple. Starts to eat it. It is going inside into the apples heart. And when it's inside, the worm starts to eat piece by piece, part by part the heart. The worm has finished the work. He ate the heart. Other day he went to other apples. Started the same work. The first apple started to putrefy. After a week all the grass is full of ugly apples. The apples which you wouldn't like to take and eat. Full of apples who are just disguisting. . . It is like the people. The people who you want to be friends with, looks for you the best at first. When you meet them and talk to them, soon you understand that they do have nothing except just broken, putrefied heart. And after more time you understand that they are not so beautifull in inside and in outside. The worm is like an epidemy for all human race. You can not read person's mind like an opened book. You can look into the top of the person and decide if you want to meet him or her. But when you know him or her better you can read him or her more like a book, or give it to library, even though you didn't read all that book. If sometimes you go near the lake that is shinning in little green lights and looks so soft, so lightful, so visible. If sometimes you go near the river which is just so quietly, just so peaceful, just going in one line. If sometimes you hear the birds singing on the highest tree with no leafs. If sometimes you want to say: "So pretty. Just so so beautiful". But soon you feel in your body something strange, in your head something different. Like burning feeling. Like the pain. You feel angry. You want to take all the things of you room and throw it. You feel dissapointed. You feel upset. You wanna run to the highest mountain and scream from the top of your lungs. You wanna scream, because you feel like somebody is chasing you with the fire in his arms. You are running. But it runs two times faster than you. You feel the breathing. You are running. Running. Running. You stop. You look around you. And you can not understand why you have ran. You just can not understand why you have ran. You can not feel the pulse, because it just flows. It is just so fast. You sit on the same grass. The sun from the blue sky is shinning so much, like on the summer. The sun before a few hours even made that from all grass the drops of water began to dissapear. You sit on the same grass and you can not understand what had happened. Think again. Nothing had happened. Or maybe something had happened. Think again. Look at the last drop on the grass. You have time till it will dry. Think again. If really nothing had happened?