What does it mean to be an author?
A story teller?
To live is to express a narrative.
More than often the experience is solipsistic, that is if you live in your head.
If one were to record every moment starting from when they were able to pick up a pen, how true would the experience be? As perception grows and develops, how closely can the story pertain to the original?
It’s true to me.
This story is closely wedded to the one in my head.
As for its plausibility, I cannot tell you if there is as much as even a drop of truth within these pages.
I didn’t lie to you, though.
I told you a story.
3.14
Having awoken at 3.14am, with no memory of events prior I had found myself in a scene of murder.
Carefully planned, quiet and seething. The type that kills you slowly. The most heinous kind.
All the signs were there, but myself, the victim had found himself alive, having shed his previous skin.
I could not remember a single thing.
My only account was my own writing. Diaries. Journals. Through which I had to re-piece the memory through words alone. I could not tell what it must have felt like or what it must have looked like, due to the fallacy of my own mind, unable to breathe in enough life to actualise the scenery.
The author is dead.
All that was left were his severed limbs, bloodless.
A simulacra of something once human.
It could be a fabrication too, but again there was no proof.
How to justify one’s existence without experience?
There was the compulsion to follow the script. I could not create something new without having learned the rules and ideals of my antecedent first.
Hollow, repetitive re-enactment of a character long-dead.
Little did I know that the hollowness I had neglected had given itself a name.
If ‘nothing’ is acknowledged, it is bound to become something.
The fundamental laws speak that, if something is brought back, it is never the same.
I was not the same.
I was different.
But I could not part with the fact that my life had been torn from me and by no one other than myself.
Now we are here, within a greater narrative.
My authorship has been passed on and I have put down my pen and resigned.
Once more, strung up inert.
