When the lights go out those silent thoughts consume me. Or shall I say when the book closes. I'm not the one reading it. I'm the one who's telling it. Opening to the table of my contents. My life this, My afterlife that. Leaning over is all I've ever done. Just because I'm telling the story doesn't mean I was the one who ever wrote it. I was just here as the character. I was created. Not born. Not as human, but a character. Which gives me these unpredictable feelings that I can't really explain. I'm not them. I'm not human. But I can relate to them. I don't know what I am or ever was. Maybe a robot out of a video game. But if I'm a robot then what am I doing in a book?
The world is too deep out there. The only safest place to hide is in a book. Where you can just be ripped, teared, destroyed, vandalized, and still be fixed. All it takes is a little repairing. But this repairing hasn't fixed me. It's made me worse overtime. I honestly wish I could be the person reading the book and not tell it. But the author never thought about what I wanted. Because I'm not real. I'm just a made-up myth. I'm trapped to tell it. All I've ever told was stories. Matter of fact I may have lied. This is my first story. So, I guess I'm just out here telling it to the real folks.
ŞİMDİ OKUDUĞUN
Error Loops Between a Character
Bilim KurguBased off a character trying to find themselves on who they are and how they cooperate with themselves. Learning who they are making their knowledge better and more confidential with being okay not knowing what the real world is like.
