I haven’t been writing. I have been giving my dreams and thoughts away to universes that are lost and untrue. They are worlds that I extrapolate from a single moment or gesture. They are universes of what if’s, alternative endings and falsities. These worlds taunt and torment me, mocking my decisions and reminding me that I am the cause of my own suffering. I am the one who destroyed these fictive realities. I am the one who made them a fiction. It has been by my hand that these relationships and hopes have come undone.
I break it and then rebuild it in my mind, the only space I can mostly control. Then I let the pain and disappointment seep under my skin and tell me poisoning lies. The two worlds, real and contrived, begin to blend and I am left confused and torn up.
So I come back to the page broken and looking for validation from the pristine white blankness. It’s the only space I have found where every feeling is true and told. It is my safest place, reminding me that I am real, alive and a creator, not just of fictions but of truths.