I had always written.
There rarely was a day when I didn't write at least one word.
Writing grew up with me. It was a part of me, and I of it.
Time formed into minutes and minutes morphed into seconds as I read, devoured story after story. I wrote, created, became the stories I made. Time traveled full speed ahead until I had no recollection of it, 'til I was out of it.
The sentences seemed to creep ever so silently into me, my heart, my soul, my entire being where they stayed forever, and no matter how much I would try to shake it out, the words wouldn't fall.
It became so much that I regarded the characters I brought to life as my brothers and sister, those who were with me every disappearing second. I lost myself in their conflicts, pushing through in the other person's perspective. And they'll slip out of their world and sneak into mine just like I walk cautiously to their's.
They restrain me when I'm going too far and throw me ahead when I'm too slow. They hold me in their invisible arms and whisper sweet, almost permanent things when I'm in despair's grasp. My submissiveness is tossed away for a little while. All darkness is eradicated for a fleeting moment.
But I'm ensnared in their clutch.
To their promise, they give me something to feel.
Yet their words don't always sink in fast enough and I feel the penalty.
The monster that I created consumed me, so much as to that I was in their world.
And it controls everything I do.
This thing provides me with feelings that I never knew existed before.
Yet it doesn't hurt me, so I continue on, sometimes longing for the masquerade, as it's the only tangible thing I can experience.
It sometimes scares me how much of my time I spend creating someone else's life.
But that is me now.
So I will continue to read the stories that swallow me whole.
And I will continue to write the stories that take over my being.
