Fictitious Playground

Writing to me is a Dramatic Art, an act given to me, calling me fourth to demonstrate my ability as an actor, a mere puppet in this case reciting lines that my creator has given me. As I get in depth with the fabricated plot, the story in which I begin to piece together in scenes gives life to me, and I am able to breath and speak for the very first time. I am alive, reborn as someone else when portraying my assigned character. The sounding of each word seems more, and more believable, the lights on stage giving me a physical power and a solid surrounding is allotted to me, and I am given a temporary and limited "Will" of some sort. I suppose a contracted (Right) is granted to me. However although this story seems like it can go on forever, I know that it will not; simply because all things come full circle and end.

But who determines my ending, why can't I stick with one character, one personality, one mind; instead I am recycled and reused when appropriate. Why can I not be heard forever? My sole purpose is to belay a message, I am my creators messenger, I can speak feverishly until I am blue in the face but whether the "critics" also known as my audience; believes my performance is even more vital. They are my instilled hope for my future. My fabricated heart becomes numb as it knows its upon judgment. As I wait on stage feeling like I am being tried for high treason. I hear nothing, and although it might only be for a moments time, it feels like a century has passed me by. Will I get a standing ovation or will no one rise? Thoughts in my mind begin to surge like electricity exploding from a power plant. Will the verdict finally be revealed am I to be innocent in this charge, or shall I be found guilty and be scarred with the word Failure.

Once people grow tired of me the light from my eyes slowly fade, and I slowly begin to vanish into total darkness, my stage becoming smaller and smaller forcing me out. I am to resign and take on a title of a forgotten creation; a broken character you may say. The writer has grown out of his playground, he or she may do whatever they want with their fictitious powers. Who am I to stand in their way, I am to comply with their wishes and die as told.

I am simply a writers hobbie, nothing more then a creation of their Will...

I'm simply that fictitious character who you once referred too.

(Exit Stage)

The End