"You", am I talking to my impromptu will, myself or... you. You, who's reading this. I know you're there. Otherwise this statement would have never been. If I wrote of my awareness of you and no one ever read that, then the statement didn't really exist. Yet here you are, reading this, tracing every word with your eyes as my hand slides away to reveal them, as my pencil-point gives it's last strokes and I press harder and harder not able to give into reality. Not able to accept the fact that you're breathing down my neck as I write this, reading my inner most thought, and not able to accept that "I" never was. I didn't create your consciousness of me, you created me yourself, as I never really was. Goodbye, dear friend. My pencil is on its last strokes now and so am I. I will have to stop writing and give into reality, if only I were real.
YOU ARE READING
If_only_I_were_real.
Short StoryEverything seems so simple in the most complicated of ways. At this hour the dark only contains monsters of your own creation yet you feel at peace with them. It is no longer only their home, you feel welcomed here too.
