What makes something real? Must it have substance to surpass a flight of fancy and be classified as part of reality? Must it have flesh and bone and blood to be brought forth from the realms of obscurity? If so, then perhaps I have no chance to become anything more than a dream, a whisper of what might but never will be.

For if I have blood, it is not but ink, my bones no more than pulp and paper. My flesh is a story that was once, perhaps, good, but the pages were turned so often it became dull and went from one of a kind to one in a few, to one in hundreds, and so on. So eventually there were millions alike, and my story ceased to stand out, not because it shone any less brightly, but because its lone brilliancy was swamped by a sea of mediocrity. The light drowned, and my story was forgotten. I was forgotten.

On and on the pages that had once been my haven were transformed into my prison. The words that had once set me free were now bars. When I first realized that was when I began to doubt whether or not I was a part of reality.

I realized that my existence, if you can even call it that, is a dreamless one, one that holds no surprises. My actions and words play over like a broken record, forgotten. Or perhaps forsaken by everyone else, so that only I am left to endlessly endure. Sometimes I'm so frustrated I get the urge to yell and yell till I'm hoarse and can't yell any more. But even when I want to, I don't want to. Not only are my actions scripted, but my thoughts as well.

There's a sunflower that grows outside my bedroom window every week, at the same time, on the same day, without fail. Every time I see it, at the same time, on the same day, I think, "What a pretty flower." But it isn't. If I could, I would loathe that flower with every last bit of me, every single bit. I would stomp on it until the stalk was crushed and unable to stand erect ever again, and then I would burn it. I would set it alight and grin into the crackling flames, rejoicing in my victory. I love it and hate it, but I can't hate it, so who's to say I do? Neither part of me knows.

For there are two parts of me, you see. There's the me that isn't me- the one who's been written and never feels doubt or boredom in her life, unless it has been written that she does. She is the one based solely on the words, the one who cannot make them up on her own unless it is written that she can. Unless it is written that she is, she is not.

I am the me that thinks these things, here and now. I'm the one that sees through the feelings that she so blindly follows. What she believes to be her house, her school, her reflection, I know to be nothing more than a few words, a cheap facade immortalized just because some idiot found a pen and paper and the will to write them down.

Are a few words really all it takes to create an existence? Am I able to think, right now, because of me? Or because someone, somewhere, is pushing a pen along a piece of paper, giving me another story to live over and over and over again? Only this time,will I be the one that does what is written while another part of me tries to defy every word, every letter?

Perhaps literature really did bring me into existence only to make me ride a merry-go-round of repetitious thoughts and empty hopes. If that's the case, then maybe it's better that I remain what I truly am- words. Nothing more than words.