Above god, the storyteller.
Standing before a white sheet of paper,
on the edge of the creation
of characters and worlds.

He masters destinies and faiths,
reconfigure, deforms his own built up reality,
tells what to think and what to make,
even against his own will.

Escapes logic, escapes a singular mind,
fragmented into others' reason,
collecting pieces of shattered own psyche,
exposing best and worst versions of himself.

The storyteller now stands
incapable of creating
having exhausted his own experiences
and all of its variations.
Writing (living) to him is no longer worthy
for creations now rely on a vivid reality.

He sees himself on the margin of creation
living the absurd of a fast imagination
in a slow concrete world.

As he starts typing again
the images of his hands start to fade
****** up to his own imaginary world
losing his matter, contained only in his ideas
where wander is prompt, boundless and free.

He was found three days later,
missing breath and heartbeats.
Free.