Here I am, but…

…Who am I?

Long time ago I used to live in prose, now my life is like a poem…

I am who I didn’t use to be…

I am the shadow of myself… No, wait… If I am the shadow of Myself, somebody has to be Myself…

Who is Myself?

Well, I will explain why I am here, like a thought on a sheet.

I used create people from my brain, like the writers create people as they write. They were a piece of my soul and I wrote them, like the writers do. Oh, my soul felt so incomplete without those people! But somehow I felt those people incomplete too! I founded the mystery of the life.

What could I do? I wanted to satisfy my soul and make those people completely real! So I told to my soul: would you like to be written on a piece of paper?

How is it?

Is Shakespeare Romeo?

Is Romeo Shakespeare?

Is Shakespeare every character he created?

No matter how hard I tried, my soul was still with me. Nights and nights were spent, but my work was not done. But one night, being so tired, I slept… I damn my boredom every day.

Since that night I found my self between the lines of this text. I found my self being not only the character but the tale… I am so afraid.

I damn the day it twisted all… It is all confused. I miss my real world, my life. I damn this shit that was supposed to be a life. This is not life, this is an uncompleted tale.

How can I be a written soul? Am I my soul? Is my soul just a part of myself?

Time to time I write a story and the characters are still incomplete, but my soul does not want to be on the tales; it has learned from what it did…

…

Has somebody heard?

I had learned from what I did!

Get me out of this place!

I damn you all!

GET ME OUT OF THIS PLACE NOW!!!