I am a boy in a book.
Somebody’s making shit up about me and I’ll end up living it.
Some people would like to think I’ll write a novel: if such is true, then this is by all means a metafictional account. Somebody has written about a young person attempting to write a book. Said person then had his Hero write of the possibility of having been created a character of an artistic demiurge; therefore being, in reality, no more than ink upon a page, somebody else’s brainchild without thought or emotion beyond that of another’s creative intent.
Only as a character does one have a purpose per se. Free will is a wild gene. Unless the process of storytelling is collective and largely disorganised, and comes from many minds as opposed to one, the pieces will mesh. The author knows the end beforehand, and will actively work toward a goal: that of making his idea work. There is no nonsense in fiction. Crude reality is imperfect in its execution, and cannot be regarded as beautiful. Reality’s narrator is cursed by a stutter.
The word
pensive derives from the Old French and means having the appearance of thought, particularly of the hopeless sort. To be pensive means to appear as though one has something on their mind.
I know you are, but what am I?
