Letter from the Soon-To-Be Fictional

I don't think we're fooling anyone with this pretense of love. I think we used to really understand each other, but that's not the case anymore. Maybe we've grown too far apart, or maybe it's me, maybe I'm the one who stopped reaching out.

I know this is sudden, but I'm sure we both have seen it coming. I know just last week I was urging you to keep trying, for both of us to keep trying; we've had such a long relationship and surely we don't want to admit that it has finally gone out of style. That both of us wasted years on each other, years and experiences that we'll never get back. I know how fiercely it stings when you have to admit that to yourself, believe me I know.

But I don't care anymore. Truly I don't, and I'd be surprised if you did, considering how aloof you've been. How aloof you've always been, now that I think on it. We're both looking for what makes us happy, aren't we? And that happiness is no longer to be found in the other. Just thinking of my life with you makes me want to run straight in the opposite direction. Makes me want to dive into the fiction of innocent love, of tidy endings, of exciting possibilities. You used to represent those things to me, but they've been taken away. You took them away, that is, and I was not done, never done, with them.

I just thought of something funny. If I achieve the fiction once more, will you once again look appealing? Is that your final twist of the knife?

Nevermind. I'm leaving you for good and I'm not going to discuss it with you any longer. I'm going to a heaven of our own design, consisting of the narrations, the music, the adventures that you've trapped here in real life. Confining them to boxes, wedging them in between the trials of servitude that constitute a continuing existence here. But my mind was shaped by them anyhow, and no longer belongs to you. I can't live here anymore.

There is a place where those tales have become life, an infinite heaven where someone's fiction has room to sprawl. It is not like this cramped mudball, this true hell where everyone's fiction is constantly grind against everyone else's. No one is happy as long as their story isn't theirs. And as soon as I finish this letter, I will slice open this bubble of so-called "reality" we are trapped in, and I will slip out into the greater fiction beyond. Then I will be happy.