Why would anyone trust me when as a writer I have worlds of people within my head, waiting for me to awaken their actions with the words I write? Do they not understand that I write births and deaths and loves and failures every second of every day for the people who exist only to me? Do they know that my omnipotence as the creator and destroyer of those lives is only separated from the real world by a restriction of my own actions? Do they not see that everything I write is tailored for the person reading the words as they flow from my fingers? Does anyone understand the many steps ahead that I think and plan the characters in my life like characters in the ongoing book in my head? They think they see forgotten breadcrumbs, a trail of an accidental connection but I leave the crumbs there on purpose. I know the trail will be gobbled up as if the reader is a ravenous child with a bloated belly. Do they think they know their place in my life? Do they know that I see them as a disposable extra and not a main character? Do they know that every book has multiple endings, and their importance to the book of my life can be edited down to nothing? Time and conversations, connections they think are real…they don’t know their place as my puppet to dance on the strings tied to my fingers, the same fingers that write these very words.
Do they think they know me?