I was a novice writer, 19, and he had found me. When I finally agreed to go out with him, he thought he’d won; I was a lottery and he was a lucky player. We had a lot in common. We both had dreams, mine was to be a big-shot writer, his was being a famous architect. We both wanted to travel and see the world outside of our dorm rooms. But the one thing that made us different was the way we loved each other. He was in love with my writing and I was in love with him, with his gestures, his smiles, his grins, his kisses, his passions. I don’t know how it was that for the 13 years that we were married, I didn’t see that his love was the dying kind, not the everlasting kind. And despite his lack of attention for me, the woman who slept next to him every night, the woman who gave him her whole heart without any exceptions, I was still blinded, maybe because I was too in love to realize his weakness, his inability to give me his heart.
He read every single article that I wrote, every single piece of writing, every poem, every story, but somehow he forgot to read the sadness in my eyes, the pain I felt every time he didn’t tell me he wanted me. But I let it go, I pushed my feelings aside and focused on pleasing him. I wrote about him every chance I got and I let him read. I had become an expert on pleasing him, making him happy and I never asked for anything. I saw him, but he no longer saw me. He kept telling me to write more and tried so hard to encourage me, to make me the best writer the world had ever seen, but he didn’t try to open his heart. And I, I waited. I waited for 13 years before letting him go.

A writer’s world is often lonely, empty, and illusive. This world can be bitter, dry, yet intoxicating and toxic. I live in one such world; I am a traveller. What I write is who I am and sometimes my inner personality can become deceptive. The roads are so wide in my illusions; there are no dead-ends, no stop signs, no walls or metal bars.
But I live in isolation. I may act fearless, I may act like a fighter, but I am still afraid of this world I live in. I’m afraid that I might slip up, or even fall. Whenever I’m alone, I think and sometimes these thoughts carry me to unreal, false destinations, ones that are so beautiful in all their fallacy and misrepresentation.
Tonight I have found myself once again in such position. I have turned myself into a fake doll, a beautiful doll with red lips, black, shimmering eyes. In my head, I belong to a prince, a prince whose lust for me will never die. I’m not in search of love. I’m too simple and I don’t live by rules. I am just a doll tonight, just a lonely, plastic doll. But this identity is too superficial, full of flaws and misrepresentations. But just as I can write anything, I can also become anybody…and that can be dangerous.