The power of an author

You don’t understand how much power I have. I’m an author. I can create whatever I want at whatever time. I can craft a story, and neatly embed it in a world built by my own hands. My ideas form the fabric of the reality I create. and I do it with finesse.

Such finesse.

I merge beauty with depravity and the appealing with repulsiveness. You don’t realize it but your interested in the contrast. As am I. You can’t be invested in a story solely about beauty. Each word is chosen, each sentence wrought with elegance so that you can see it with your mind’s eye and feel it with your morality.

My stories are real. They are. They may look like nothing more than words on a page, pixels on a screen, maybe something you heard. But I swear they are. Every character is a person, every plot point is an actual event and every story is a life lived. Every tragedy is real because its conceivable.

My characters are real. I have to create characters. I’m a writer. Thats what I do. I bleed my savagery into them. My savantism. My ethical imperfection. They carry the burden so that I don’t have to.