We are not real people. We are shelf people. People that say things that we don’t mean and mean things that we don’t say. We live between pages, between lines, between phrases, somewhere in the cadence that lulls us to sleep behind the curtains of invisible lives that we’d rather be living. We are creators and destroyers. We are realist that believe that optimism is a curse and love is a lie. We are neither good nor evil and we are rarely ourselves whoever that may be, today, tomorrow, last week. We will steal your words, your lives, your lusts. We will turn you into something greater or worse than you are and when you ask us we’ll use that upturned grin and hiss that it’s all fiction anyway. And isn’t it? Isn’t life nothing more than fiction written out so perfectly to not allow you, the reader, to know. But we know. Those of use who create and orchestrate. We know it’s all a lie. Every last word of it.
(Source: shewritesdarkness, via msrighthere-deactivated20120418)
Geschichtenerzählerinnen sind die Lügnerinnen der Wahrheit.