last words for the night
i feel like writing more, but as soon as the doorbell rings
and frizz gets here, i'm going to have to hit submit and
leave. sorry if its midthought.
i wonder who i'm talking to when i write. i think i'm
talking to all those imaginary friends i had as a child,
letting them know that i'm alive and giving them insight
into what they can no longer be a part of.
i'm not a social butterfly, never have been. i live in a
hole. i like my hole. i've always been a writer, for as
long as i could remember, and everywhere you look, around
me there's paper and pen and a manuscript i've put down.
what happens to all my characters? are they real outside
my head? do i see only a portion of their lives before
they move out of focus? do they know i'm watching them?
are they real? i think its the egotism of a writer to
believe that we really create a fantasy world. but isn't
that why people read? to find escape? its why i read.
and to take some new insight away. usually about something
small, but the worlds that other writers create make so much
more sense to me than reality. bad i know. they have as
much insight into things as anyone else.
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