I am fiction, I am a creation from the mind of others. I have a plot, a twist, a story, I even have a synopsis which references to my character.

I can change the way the story goes, the people I meet along my journey and through the chapters of this book I will discover not only where the story is going but the connections it made to the previous pages.

The parts of the book that have been read cannot be changed, they have come and gone, ingrained with black ink into the subtle off white pages of pulped wood that lay in front of me, each day brings a new page, another sentence, another paragraph, each culminating into chapters and in turn creating the book of me, my story.

This book will be filled with emotions, with mistakes and with happiness, most but not all stories end in a conclusion, an explanation for its plots, I feel mine will never reach this, its last page will always remain blank, ready for the next inked letter to take form and stretch out its words into the concluding novel.

For once this is read, tear out the pages, rip out the seems, separate the segments and throw this book to the wind, let the pages of thought and memory scatter and travel through the breath of passers by and lay stagnant on the dirty stream, let the ink run, let the paper soak through and let the pulp return to the ground from which it was once formed.