Fiction

I'm fictional. The emotions that I experience, they're all a part of my make-believe. I create stories and I feel through them. Things that never happen, things that cannot happen, I make them feel so real, and then I hurt, I hurt over things that I create, because to me, feeling is beautiful, sadness is the greatest form of art. And feeling is so essential to me that I need a story, I need something tragic to make me real, and through the irony, my fictional feelings sink under my skin. My life is so empty that without the make-believe I will die. The real world gives me nothing, it's grey, completely colorless, and I can't accept it. So I create scenarios of drama, of love, of heartbreak and of death so I can find some meaning. I hurt over made up betrayals, I laugh over the love stories I myself create. How is it possible that I haven't gone extinct yet, when every layer of me is fake? There is nothing real under there, I am an empty nutshell, I have nothing to offer and nothing to take in.

And my feelings for you, they are based on lies too. Lies that I choose, the ones I myself carefully craft. I create the immaculate heartbreak, and then I ache. I obliterate myself through the lies I live.

There is nothing real about me. Every great sentence, every virtue I acquire, I possess only in my own stories. I just experienced a breakthrough; I am fiction. I don't exist.