Not sure why I'm posting this. Maybe it's because I'm unwell, and therefore melancholy. Who knows? Moods come and moods go.
Got to thinking about the girls, you know. As characters, in our stories. Oh, they're real people, that they are, but once we start to write them, they become characters. Real people becoming fake people in a story-verse where the writer is judge and jury, God and Lord.
So they become paintings. Caricatures. A different kind of reality. Still people. But not the same people that they are, in our reality. No, they cross into story-world, and become something else.
People still, but not the same anymore.
I wonder how it is we treat them, we writers, we who pretend to play God in our little universes. I read stories, I write stories. Do we treat them with respect, as people deserve?
Or do we treat them as toys? Plasticine, blocks of clay to be played with, molded into whatever shape we desire?
Somewhere along the way, I think we sometimes lose sight of the fact that they're fake people, still people, based off real people who (I hope) have no idea what we're doing with our images of them.
I try to respect them. Little me, big me, pieces of me. I respect even little fragments of imaginary people, woven out of my own consciousness, who aren't even based off real people. Not like the girls. But I do love them, like my own. They are my own.
Do you think of them? What do you think of them? How do you think of them? Caricatures all? We do, after all, have so little to go by. Little pieces, possibly real, possibly fake. So many possibilities.
Are what we see on video the truth? Or lies? But there is truth even in a lie, reality in what is said and not-said. What is presented may conceal much, but the choice to conceal such too, reveals much.
We read, we write. We pretend to understand. We play in our own little backyards. Sometimes we let others peek, visit a little. Sometimes we cross over, watch others, watch them at play.
We play with dolls here. Dolls all, based off our favorite girls. Each of us who write, our own set of dolls available to us. Some basic; others more detailed, more precise. Some even collector's editions, practically lifelike. Those are rare, and there are those who watch and learn, and add more to their own dolls. Crude dolls, exquisite masterpieces. They're all here.
And then now I wonder. I do so wonder.
How many of us actually know how to mold a human?
I leave in peace. My throat burns, it rumbles, a wracking cough that tastes of blood. Blood remembered. I take my rest now.