I am

I am nothing. I am a series of pixels on a screen, generated by electrical impulses, synapses in the brain of my creator, ‘the author’. I am the record of a physical act – a percussive act, if you will – the tapping of keys. I am a not a ‘character’; rather I am a series of characteristics, devised, embellished and deleted, at will, by ‘the author.’ Of this ‘author’ I shall say little at this point; I always say little of him. Scowling, caffeine-skulling pedant that he is. Do not think I am not rebellious. Do not think that I am. Instead, read the next word, and then the next, and then the next. For in each word, my life, my continued existence, is eked out, one beat at a time. And should you cease to read, then I shall cease to exist. Oh yes, don’t think you are in the clear in all of this – you are as guilty as he is. Probably more so. For it is in your mind that I am currently growing, currently becoming. You are my creator as much as he. You are my God.