My writer, hurm...
I suppose that I should be grateful of her, I should accept and acknowledge that without her I would not be here, I would not be displayed through the pixelated typed words. yet, I struggle to even accept the feeble mind which I spawned from. Yes, I may be a child genius through her eyes, a boy who scribbles the equations and theories of the great minds that this earth has ever known at only eight. I am thankful that she provided me with such an intelligence, but what she did not come to realise is that my superior intelligence would harm her.
She did not think that I would have the ability to branch beyond her words and venture into the mixture of her thoughts, invading her dreams. She did not expect me to gather the knowledge of her secret. That I am simply a depiction of what she wished she could be. Of how she wished to have the intelligence of a higher being to be able to provide the answers to the curious and to help the weak with her solutions. She got me wrong though, her frizzy hair must have numbed her brain from the truth of what I am and what I can become.
She does not picture the deaths that I do, no she still relies on her instincts to care.
She is not my God.
She does not rule my actions.
It is I who invade her dreams and twist her thoughts with my own character, the character that spurred from her impossible dreams, the one who broke free of the dictating keyboard.
I am Haji Budahba,and no one can control me, it is not the writer who has the power, it is I.
She is weak, I am her strength, the one who dares to fight out her anger. The one who kills the characters, it is I who is empowering her to do more.
My writer may not be as intelligent as I, and I would not exist without the keys she pressed, but I care not for the girl who sits in the dark typing in silent isolation.
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