i am nothing

If I knew how painful that writing can be would I still have chosen it?

It's become a part of me. Without it I am nothing. I am doomed on the path I have dreamed for myself. I will die because of my stories.

I have embodied thousands of people, I have donned the masks of hundreds of faces and things to keep this makeshift stage going.

People have gears to make them function. I have the curtain call. When the worlds I've made stop moving and when all things living within it die, that is when I will truly cease to exist.

But until then, I am cursed. I will bear the hell and heaven of a thousand earths to keep my limbs moving, to keep my heart beating and me, alive.

I live through my stories until they are no longer heard by the trees and soil. Until all on this planet have returned to dust. And even then, it will remain in some form or another, just rearranged atoms, fragments that I have existed.

Fragments that my creations had been built by someone. And it gives me comfort to know that I will remain this way because nothing is ever truly gone.

Was this always who I was supposed to be?

Were the stories I were told and the things I have watched the ones that molded me, gave me a purpose from which there is no escape from?

Was I doomed to walk this path from the beginning?

If this is what had been set out for me, then it has become the most wonderful of blessings and the most horrid of tragedies

Will I be burned in history as a lone person too afraid to stop, or will I fade and all that I do become irrelevant?

If so, then I will delve deeper into the worse parts of me. I will confine myself to a dream that will never come true. And it will be my delusions, not my stories, that will kill me.

Whatever death awaits me, I accept and welcome,

On the condition that it is painless for agony is what I am most fearful of when I die. Irony, it's purest form, because I already suffer the greatest of all pains on this endless road with inescapable walls.

I have become nothing. And from the stories that my hands weave, I am a puppet to my dreams to which my own children pull me on. They are who I am, and all who I will be. People, living in one thing.

I am their vessel.