False Reality
Written December 4th, 2007.

It's been a while since I have sat down to write what's on my mind. Maybe I have just been too busy in my knowing infatuation, or maybe it's that I am so scared of knowing truth. Of knowing reality. These words flow from the pointed top of my freshly sharpened pencil quite freely, though at the same time, I feel quite hesitant to allow these palms to carry truth accross the smooth surface of these dusty sheets I have abandoned. I've lost the feeling of knowing reality can lie upon these pages, bound together, only for myself to see. I've forgotten. And now I begin my journey in searching for that same refuge I once knew. Perhaps this pencil, carrying a world of possibility, and dreams can replace this void within me.

I remember, at one point in my life- seeming to be quite distant- I had turned a shaking hand to a series of pages consisting of a cursive hand, bearing my true self. Though now i have filled my world with lies and false reality much so that I cannot even remember when, and why I had laid down my pencil, and exchanged it for a fictional life. Although surely my reasoning could not have been worth this dreaded darkness I had walked myself into, within all contiousness. I lost track of the light guiding me through that journey- giving in to small temptations at each arm posessing oppertunity. A bleek sadness could have crossed my face though I would not have noticed, for I had become blind. A sort of blind that brought me to see a life of fiction, and worry, trouble, and tears. A blindness that you would read about in books. Though, of course it should be- For that is what became my refuge I came to need and "thrive" upon. A fictional story that I, alone, could create within my own desires, and mind, and mix within the reality that bore me, until there became no difference.

I traded in pieces of me, for pieces of that character I had felt compelled in creating. That girl who lie upon a sheet of parchment within the bounds of a book. A book I could lose myself easily to, and fall into a state of absense from this world. It was not the girl who shall stare back at me each time I dare to look upon my reflection. THAT girl was trapped. Trapped inside of that book that had once been my life. The book that I traded in, to become a fictional. I guess nothing had been good enough for me, for greed and selfishness washed over me like a sea of water, and I began to need more. More of the darkness that became my new truth.

Many oppertunities to burn these pages filled of fictional truth came to me, though I resisted the offer of light. Such an offer should have been immediately accepted by my open arms, though somehow my darkness overcame my own light. The two would clash, as they shared no similiarity, though I guess I had become head over heels with this world I created- It became my infatuation. It was a book of my very own. A staged performance. And not only was I every single actor, but also the chorus, and director, the producer, the choreographer- And the world around me, the world of reality, well, they were my audience.
Nothing else mattered, did it?

Every story has an ending. I believe that in fiction, and I believe that in truth. And this is the only truth that has made its own way through the darkened path which i have chosen to travel by. I hold onto it quite tightly, hoping that it will help me find the world of reality I had once known. For that will be my ending. My happy ending. Until that day comes, let this ending remain unwritten.

Alycia Dort