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.