Society in my book


       I sat on my ass.  Reading book after book, novel after novel.  And I
knew I could write.  What happened next was almost a blur.  I picked up a
piece of paper and a fed it into my typewriter, now rusty with age.  And I
began to hit the keys.
       As my lonely fingers tapped at the keys, letters started to appear on
the page, almost like magic.  Though these words matched the thoughts in my
head.  And I continued to allow the thoughts in my head to pour down the
slide, onto the page.
       And as these words filled the page, a plot appeared.  And characters
took hold of this plot, and lived.  Creation was created.  And the characters
became real people, living real lives, I became another one of them.  And I
interacted with them, speaking their language, reading their books; loving
them as I loved myself.  And my words now mixed with their words, filling
more pages.
       And someone was reading my book, after letter, word after word.
Becoming another one of us, inside the book.  Many people continued to read
the book, allowing letters to roam within their heads, and become entangled
within the same very words in which I wrote.  And they finished reading my
book.  And there was an entire society in my book.  And I was inside it.
Trapped with my words.
And I was happy.
And I was happy. 


By jY