the irony of a writer
“it’s just some wild fantasies.” i know.
“So why do you keep making it?”
I gulped in fear. I saw their eyes got wider each time I moved with a single stroke of a pen. I heard their heart beats faster whenever I finished writing a paragraph. I felt they’re close to lifelike. And it satisfies me when everything went just the way I wanted them to be.
In my world, everything would be the way it supposed to be.
“but you know it’s not true, right?” i know.
“So why do you keep making it?”
Each time I made a new one, they will wait patiently in line, so neatly prepared and beautifully written, just like an alphabetical order. I’ve always made sure that I do not miss a beat, so I do it justice and I won’t let myself interfere.
“but you know it only happens in your head?” i know.
“So why do you keep making it?”
One moment I was at the library, writing as always. Then, the next thing I knew, I was at a parloir, waiting for them. My eyes tracing each and every one of them, counting from one to ten. They were sitting in front of a glass box, as I draw emotions to label them. This one’s quirky, and this one’s bold. She’s loved, and he’ll love her.
“It’s not real.” i know.
“So why do you keep making it?”
I hate writing stories while knowing too darn well, it only belongs in a tiniest place inside my head, and I’d like to call it as my alternate reality.
“If you hate it so much, why do you keep making it?”
Tiny smiles, as my right hand filled with inks : I don’t know.
Liar.
My eyes won’t meet their eyes. Shoot. They knew.
“It’s because you hate your life, isn’t it?”
EMERGENCY! CHANGE THE PLOT!!
*Scoffs* loser.
