the character.

i've noticed
this little quirk
in my head.
i'm counting steps,
but not my own.
what have i done to
wonder about the steps
of another?


don't you love how
at the beginning of a
story,
on the first page,
things are so... happy?
like the world is spinning
at a constant,
and the people are smiling,
and the clouds drift
around without a care.
this beautiful globe
is created,
so perfect,
and i'm counting steps.


but then you turn the page,
and you're falling
deep into this perfect
globe,
only to realize the
immense amount
of scar tissue.
the earth is tilted too far,
those smiles were winces from fear,
and the clouds loom
just a little too long
for comfort.
the clouds are staying,
and i'm counting steps.


you finally reach that
cute little turning point,
and you can see this
happy ending unfolding.
what a relief, eh?
this poor whoever
seems like he'll make it out,
make it out okay.
he's going to be alright,
and i'm counting steps.




[dear reader,
i would suggest now
that you learn to love
the twisted sense of humor
that dwells within the author.
a lion, he is.
as fake and heartless as
the character in a story.]


you finally reach the ending,
only to find that the
poor whoever
isn't here anymore.
you hope that the angels
welcomed him home,
but is there any way to know?
the story fell south
just as easily as you
fell in.
you fell south,
and i fell south,
and we managed
to take a few names
down with us.


the new reality is,
and this is the author
being real,
it's done.
over.
as dead as the
sweet character
from the story,
the one we all had
so much hope for
and yet we did nothing
while he drew his last breath.
remember this,
and sleep well tonight,
there was nothing we could
do,
because he was just
a character
in a
story.


i'm still counting steps.
we are not the same.