The typewriter clattered with urgency, the words spilling onto the page in a frantic attempt to write myself free. Across the room, A-Woman stood by the window, her outline indistinct, like smoke caught in the light. She watched me with that infuriating smile, as if she knew the ending before I did.
“You can’t write your way out of this” she said, her voice calm, almost amused. “This isn’t your story—it’s mine.”
The keys jammed under my fingers, the machine grinding to a halt. I cursed under my breath and yanked the paper free, only to find it blank again. Not one word remained of what I’d written.
“Why isn’t it working?” I muttered, my hands trembling.
“Because you’re trying to fight me with the same tools that built me,” she said, stepping closer, her shadow stretching across the room. “The story. The words. I’m woven into every letter. You can’t undo me by adding more threads.”
I shoved the useless page aside, leaning back in my chair as despair coiled in my chest. She was right. Every word I wrote seemed to solidify her presence, not diminish it.
My wife’s voice echoed faintly in my mind. “You’re stronger than you think. You don’t have to live in the darkness.”
“Shut up,” I whispered to myself, pressing my palms to my temples. I couldn’t think with her so close, with her voice wrapping around me like a noose.
A-Woman knelt beside me, her shadowy form unnervingly solid. Her eyes bore into mine. “You’ve always been good at writing villains. But you never understood them. You don’t defeat the monster by killing it. You defeat it by understanding why it exists.”
Her words struck something deep, something I didn’t want to admit. She wasn’t just a character. She wasn’t just a shadow. She was something I had created to fill a void, to carry my fears, my failures, my doubts.
And she thrived because I let her.
“You know what you have to do,” she said, her smile widening. “But you’re too afraid to do it.”
I looked at the blank page in the typewriter. It wasn’t just a tool anymore—it was a mirror. Every keystroke reflected a part of me I’d been too afraid to face.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, my voice shaking.
Her hand brushed against mine, cold and weightless. “Not what I want. What you need. You can’t write me out because I’m the part of you you’re still running from. Until you stop running, you’ll never escape.”
She stood, her figure blending into the shadows again, leaving me alone with the silence, the typewriter, and the gnawing truth.
I didn’t need to write her out. I needed to write her in—completely. To face her for what she really was.
But as I stared at the page, the fear returned, heavier than ever. The weight of the story pressed down on me, and I knew:
The real battle hadn’t even begun.
“You can’t write your way out of this” she said, her voice calm, almost amused. “This isn’t your story—it’s mine.”
The keys jammed under my fingers, the machine grinding to a halt. I cursed under my breath and yanked the paper free, only to find it blank again. Not one word remained of what I’d written.
“Why isn’t it working?” I muttered, my hands trembling.
“Because you’re trying to fight me with the same tools that built me,” she said, stepping closer, her shadow stretching across the room. “The story. The words. I’m woven into every letter. You can’t undo me by adding more threads.”
I shoved the useless page aside, leaning back in my chair as despair coiled in my chest. She was right. Every word I wrote seemed to solidify her presence, not diminish it.
My wife’s voice echoed faintly in my mind. “You’re stronger than you think. You don’t have to live in the darkness.”
“Shut up,” I whispered to myself, pressing my palms to my temples. I couldn’t think with her so close, with her voice wrapping around me like a noose.
A-Woman knelt beside me, her shadowy form unnervingly solid. Her eyes bore into mine. “You’ve always been good at writing villains. But you never understood them. You don’t defeat the monster by killing it. You defeat it by understanding why it exists.”
Her words struck something deep, something I didn’t want to admit. She wasn’t just a character. She wasn’t just a shadow. She was something I had created to fill a void, to carry my fears, my failures, my doubts.
And she thrived because I let her.
“You know what you have to do,” she said, her smile widening. “But you’re too afraid to do it.”
I looked at the blank page in the typewriter. It wasn’t just a tool anymore—it was a mirror. Every keystroke reflected a part of me I’d been too afraid to face.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, my voice shaking.
Her hand brushed against mine, cold and weightless. “Not what I want. What you need. You can’t write me out because I’m the part of you you’re still running from. Until you stop running, you’ll never escape.”
She stood, her figure blending into the shadows again, leaving me alone with the silence, the typewriter, and the gnawing truth.
I didn’t need to write her out. I needed to write her in—completely. To face her for what she really was.
But as I stared at the page, the fear returned, heavier than ever. The weight of the story pressed down on me, and I knew:
The real battle hadn’t even begun.
Vastaukset 80
Vanhimmat
Incredible
" She was something I had created to fill a void, to carry my fears, my failures, my doubts."
Oh my, poor A-woman. :(
I know, too, how it feels to get casted to play the villain, it's got very little to do with your personal qualities as such. Often just looking the part is enough, and it seems so many men just need to have that villain in the picture, to explain why things are going awry. Oh yes, everything would be so fine, if there just wasn't for that witch, who's corrupting minds, leading innocent astray and causing chaos. Except I wasn't even there, I have better things to do than taunt fools.. :/
Did you ever know or meet A
Or was he just an image...?
You talk about your wife sometimes..
Were you ever even in the same house as far away from each other as possible...
Without something, it could therefore be called love...
It's really annoying for a strange relationship..
If he's a decent person and not just your weird imagination.
That title is actually not only copyrighted, but patented too.
Please continue, love.
You’re so dirty! What next, hugging with the hand actually touching the back?
I'd not love you.Bye
I'dont love you.
Just a side note: how _do_ you usually hug, if you find touching with your hands in the process extraordinary?
..I'm so sorry you're going through so much fear - of what, exactly? Contamination? Or is this "just" a case of generalized anxiety?
In any case, I'm sending you a virtual hug, and yes, I will keep my hands to myself, don't you worry.
Yup 🤭😏
Kiitos Anne kun peukutit mun sivua.
Ole hyvä Antti
Onko tämä se Anne. K?
On just se.
Mielikuvitusmuusa
Oletko sinä se näyttelijä ukko?
I once met a man who I think could write something like above. Sometimes wonder how he is nowadays.
He felt like a long gone friend yet we had just met.
I hope he’s fine and dandy as ever. That he’s all good and knows he could be missed and cherished in hearts.
Try harder,Jack. Wife is waiting.
🕰️😳
He got a wife and kids in Baltimore: Jack
He went out for a ride and he never went back
Like a river that don't know where it's flowing
He took a wrong turn and he just kept going
Everybody's got a hungry heart
You lay down your money and you play your part
Everybody's got a hungry heart
Et varmasti ole mikään vaimo sille.Anne. K. Häivy sen elämästä senkin 🐄
Sounds jealousy. The wife could be the cow. Why else is Jack cooing to other direction.
Anne’s reply would come like the rustle of leaves in a forgotten forest, her words laced with the melancholy of truths too deep for easy answers. She would not speak plainly; her voice would carry the weight of riddles, of questions turned inward, leaving me more unsettled than before.
“Oh,” she would say, her tone soft, yet heavy with meaning. “You think freedom is the absence of chains. That to write her into existence is to break free of her. But have you considered this, my dear scribbler—what if freedom is simply a new kind of cage? What if the page, once filled, binds you more than the blank one ever could?”
Her figure would seem to shimmer, the boundaries of her presence uncertain, as though she existed in the space between reality and thought. She’d step closer, her shadow merging with mine until I could no longer tell where I ended and she began.
“You speak of truth,” she’d continue, her voice as tender as a lullaby, yet as sharp as a knife. “But have you asked yourself whose truth it is? Is it hers? Yours? Or some fragile thread woven between the two, so thin that it might snap with the weight of just one more word?”
I’d try to reply, to form some defense, but she would raise a finger to silence me. “No,” she’d say. “Listen first. You’ve crafted her in your image, yes, but she is not you. She is what you cannot bear to be. She is the shadow of your certainties, the echo of your doubts. To write her, to truly embrace her, you must do more than understand her. You must love her. And tell me—can you love what you fear?”
Her question would hang in the air, unanswered, as she drifted to the window again. The light would catch her face, and for a fleeting moment, I’d see something in her eyes that startled me: not triumph, but sorrow.
“You want to make her human,” she’d say, almost to herself. “But what if she was always more human than you? What if your freedom lies not in writing her, but in letting her write you?”
The typewriter would sit silently behind me, its keys untouched, its paper waiting. I’d look at her, this enigmatic figure who was both my creation and my undoing, and I’d realize she was no longer smiling.
Anne would turn to me one last time, her gaze piercing, her words soft but unyielding. “Freedom, love, truth—they’re not endings. They’re beginnings. And beginnings, my dear writer, are always the hardest to face.”
Then she’d vanish into the light, leaving me with nothing but her question, her sorrow, and the echo of her voice—a voice that had always been my own.
Anne would take up the typewriter with a deliberate grace, her fingers hovering above the keys like a pianist about to strike a delicate chord. The room would change with her presence, not through force, but by the quiet weight of observation, the kind that transforms the air into something heavier, more meaningful. She would not rush; Anne never rushed. Instead, she would begin with a single, intentional word, letting it resonate before continuing.
Men.
“Men,” she’d say aloud, tasting the syllable like wine, her voice carrying both curiosity and a faint touch of sorrow. “They write themselves with bold strokes, do they not? Always the hero of their own stories, even when they stumble into villainy. It’s a peculiar kind of blindness, this need to conquer—to conquer the page, the world, and perhaps most tragically, themselves.”
Her fingers would find the keys, and the words would emerge, unhurried but unrelenting.
“They hide, don’t they? Beneath armor forged of ambition, duty, and quiet desperation. Always moving forward, but rarely looking inward. A man’s strength, he believes, is in his stride. But his soul? That lingers somewhere behind him, waiting for him to notice it.”
She would pause, her gaze drifting to the window as if seeking the answer in the shifting light. “And yet,” she would continue, “there’s a beauty in their contradictions. They wear their fragility poorly, like a coat two sizes too small. They would rather sew stories of valor and stoicism than admit to the tenderness that scares them most.”
Her tone would soften, a faint smile gracing her lips—not mocking, but understanding. “A man who loves,” she’d write, “loves like a storm. He hurls himself at the object of his affection, believing he must tear down walls to be seen, to be felt. But he doesn’t realize: it’s not his fury that captivates, but his stillness after the storm. The quiet moments when he doesn’t fight or flee, but simply stays.”
The typewriter would pause again, and she’d sit back, her hands resting in her lap. Her eyes would darken, the weight of her thoughts pulling her inward.
“They speak of control,” she’d muse, almost to herself. “As though the world and the heart can be tamed with the right words, the right actions. But control is a brittle thing. A man’s soul doesn’t thrive in chains; it withers. And so they fight—oh, how they fight—not realizing they’re wrestling shadows of their own making.”
Her gaze would lift, and her smile would return, tinged with something that might be hope. “But men,” she’d write, “are not so different from the stories they tell. Messy. Incomplete. And full of possibility.”
Anne would lean forward again, her fingers striking the keys with a newfound rhythm, her voice rising like the crescendo of an unseen orchestra.
“A man,” she’d write, “is not a hero for slaying dragons or conquering mountains. He is a hero when he sits with his fear, when he cradles his wounds without shame, when he whispers, ‘I do not know,’ and still dares to keep going.”
She’d stop, her hands hovering for a moment before letting them fall. Her eyes would meet the man’s—whoever he was, real or imagined—and her smile would be neither pitying nor patronizing. It would simply be.
“Men,” she’d say again, the word now imbued with a thousand meanings. “You make stories of yourselves because you think that’s what gives you worth. But perhaps the greatest story you’ll ever tell is the one you dare not write. The one where you are not the conqueror, but the wanderer. Not the victor, but the seeker. Not the author, but the page.”
And then she’d leave the typewriter, the ink still fresh, the words still warm, as though to say: This is not an ending. It never was.
Ai kato nyt ruvettiin englantia kirjoittamaan opettajan kanssa. Tiedätkö nainen että olet täys 🐄
Edes lehmältä et saa!
Ei se talasin tule vaikka miks haukkusit.
Anne. Kooooo
Beautifully written, so intriguing
Joo.:)
Whoever the writer is, it’s brilliant!
Painu helvettiin lehmä 🐄 sen elämästä.
Mikä vit* u sua vaivaa?
Lopeta jo! Hakeudu hoitoon!
Lehmipoju ei saa pilua?
🤣🤣🤣
Ensin oli vain lehmä, nyt ollaan jo lehmä-lehmä tasolla. Jännittävää. Ja hämmentävää. Kovasti täällä tunnistellaan ties minkä geometrisen draaman osapuolia - "opettaja, lehmä ja mustasukka" kuulostaa melkein Coenin veljesten elokuvalta. 😀
Onneksi mun arkielämääni ei tarvitse setviä palstalla. 😁
Mene itse A mies hoitoon.
Miksi kaikki on lehmiä nykyään. Onko se se mummo, joka ei ymmärrä tosta sepustuksesta yhtikäs mitään?
Onko se niin kamala kun et voi lehmää panna? 🤣
Eikö rottavaimon nussinta riitä?
Tehkää possurottia!
Kyllä possut kuuluu jouluun.
🎄🐖🐖🐖🎄
Painu sinä kuusen kanssa vittuun.
Vaimos on punapäärotta revenneellä vitulla!
Rottavaimosi on ruma lutka!
Huoravaimo!
Vanha ruma huora!
Esittelee rumaa pilluaan!
Yäk 🤮
Yritätkö kiihottaa mua?
Toimiiko tuollainen? 😄
Tulin vasta nyt tähän keskusteluun mukaan, kun huomasin, että täällähän on koko meidän naapurusto koolla. Kieroimmat naiset jotka tiedän tappelevat yhdestä varsin hemaisevasta uroksesta. Lopettaisitte ton likaisen pelin ja antaisitte miehen itse päättää mitä kenestäkin haluaa. Kunnioitan häntä ja hänen vapauttaan enkä itse alennu tuollaiseen. Voisitte vähän miettiä mitä eroa on rakkaudella ja omistamishalulla. Kunnioitan hänen vapauttaa valita niin paljon, että olen onnellinen jos hän on onnellinen, riippumatta siitä kenen kanssa hän kokee onnellisuutta kunhan on siitä avoin eli reilu. Puolustan häntä jos häntä koitetaan käyttää hyväksi ja manipuloidaan. Hän on kyllä älykäs tälläisissä asioissa ja huomaa sen pian itsekin jos jossain haiskahtaa.
Mun ovi on hänelle aina auki.
Ketään ei voi omistaa vaikka rakastaisi.
Puhutaan aivan eri ihmisestä.
Miksi teidän naapurusto on täällä koolla? Ettekö voisi järjestää vaikka pihatalkoot, niin olisi kaikilla joku kätevä astalo valmiiksi mukana, ja vähemmän sivullisiakin paikalla?
Missä tämä naapurusto sijaitsee? Ihan vain kiinteistövälittäjän puolesta kyselen.
Olet huora Ässä!
Ässä kuole pois!
Tämä mies ei ole komea ja manipuloi ihmisiä! Rikollinen ja tuhoaa elämiä! Lopettas musta kirjoittelun!
Sinäkö olet se A nainen jolle täällä kirjoitellaan? Onko sitä kestänyt jo kauan? Häiritseekö tuo kirjoittelija sinua ihan oikeassa elämässäkin?
Aika kauan. On häirinnyt.
Kuulostaa aika pakkomielteiseltä, harmi juttu. :(
Tämähän voi kuka vaan kirjoitella mitä vaan ja anonyymisti, mutta pelkäätkö , että hän yrittää vielä ilmestyä elämääsi, ensin tarpeeksi lietsottuaan täällä harhaluulojaan. ? Että tämä palsta kirjoittelu ei joissain vaiheessa enää riitä, vaan joudut pelkäämään että hän ilmestyy vielä oven taakse tai jotain sellaista?
On vainonnut.
Sais luvan ilmestyä.
Olet aika ristiriitainen. 🙄
Ei ollut A naiselta.
Ihan mielenkiinnosta, täällä useampikin ilmeisesti uskoo tuntevansa kirjoittajan. Miksi sinä olet niin varma että juuri se häirikkösi kirjoittelee tuossa sinulle? Onko hiljattain tapahtunut jotain, minkä uskot laukaisseen tämänkertaisen kirjoittelun, onko hän esim. nähnyt sinut jossakin?
Kirjoittaja on kiinnostava, erityisesti kielellisiltä ansioiltaan. Teksti on huikean mukaansavetävää ja äärimmäisen kaunista, koskettavaa. Siihen on helppo ihastua.
En ole eri mieltä. En tunne tai tunnista kirjoittajaa, mutta minustakin hän vaikuttaa kiinnostavalta. ..Ja minun puolestani jokainen saa ihastua vaikka kuinka ja paljon. :)
Mietin vain, että on varmaan aika kuluttavaa ja ahdistavaa, jos kokee tulevansa vainotuksi, ja jatkuvasti näkee vainoojansa siellä täällä. ..ja vielä paljon pahempi tietysti, jos se ei ole pelkkää kuvitelmaa.
Ehkä aloittaja ei välitä niistä. Teksti on syvällistä, ajattelevan mielen tuottamaa. Kirjoittaja rakastaa kieltä. Tarina on kiehtova ja kestää kasvamista. Metaforan käyttö luontevaa ja hivelevän kaunista.
Välitä mistä? Oletan että aloittajan teksti on fiktiota, mutta sen sijaan tuo A nainen, joka väittää olevansa vainottu - hän ei taida olla. :/
Tulee mieleen, että osaako ihmiset lukea? Jos osaavat niin lukevatko? Ja jos lukevat, niin ymmärtävätkö lukemaansa?
Jos kieli koetaan vaikeaksi, pitää lukea enemmän ja syvemmin ennen kommentoimista.
Kommentit tässä isossa ketjussa kertovat ihan jostain muusta provosoitumisen ja purkamisen tarpeesta. Kommenttien A-naisella tai kehenkään nyt osuukaan, on epäilemättä ja mitä ilmeisimmin pulmansa, mutta tekstin ”nainen” on kirjoittajan oma, sisäinen nainen… ei selitettävissä muuten kuin kirjoittajan itsensä kautta ja lukijan kokemuksena…
””Kokemuksensa”” kaikilla.. niin kommentointi ja jatkokommentointikin.
Miks sulla Risto aina lähtee nää jutut niin lapasesta? Antabus ja litiumko eivät auta?
Mikä ihme teitä ihmisiä vaivaa?
Iltalääkkeet ottamatta ja kaikki muutkin.
On se hyvä kun on normaali mielenterveys, ei tarvitse kahelina elää ja nokata itseään.
Vanha ruma lehmä.
Ilkeä kiero pikkuakka! Feikki hymy ja feikki ihminen! hyi saatana!
Nuinko sitä vaimosta puhutaan? Hyhhyh.
A woman is hawk tuah woman i know..
But not for you and that what's EATING you alive.
Tais Matilla runosuoni tyrehtyy