You’re it.

I could start out telling my name. Normally I wouldn’t introduce myself, but I saw a movie. What does a movie have to do with anything? Absolutely everything. A movie, a play, a song, and a letter that appeals interest, then takes part of a life. Whether the appeal has to do with mystery, romance, intelligence or even insanity, it’s all the same. The life of a character becomes the obsession, and the obsession is what keeps them up at night. Gripping to every word, every sound, every move the character makes, they follow a pattern. One step at a time, they take one more breath of the character until that breath fills their soul. Staying late into the night’s hours, wondering what life would be like. Walking every step, talking every word, they live for the moment. That one tip into characterization. Living a story and making up the rules. But control can only take them so far.

The obsession becomes clear. Inserting a word they have ever said, inserting a move into their personality and putting themselves in the shoes. That is the obsession. They want to live exactly like the movie. They want to live exactly like the play or song. A letter is written at the beginning, middle and end documenting the move. Completing a character lifestyle will guarantee them the life of mortality, a life of control, and a life of insanity. They sit at their desk pondering the question, “What if?” What if, exactly, their life was the story? The possibilities would be endless. They would be driving around at night in their car, just waiting for the killer to strike. They would be sitting on the end of the bed waiting for the affair to end. They would be burying the body of their victim under the tree in the park, just waiting for the instant paranoia to sink in.

Then typing up every inch, every mile, every line on a piece of paper they begin to understand. Putting in clues in the beginning leads the reader down one path. The reader first thinks the character is innocent, and that is exactly what the problem is. But what happens when, let’s say, we throw in a rock? A bump in the road that is completely unrelated? The reader wonders, “Where did this come from?” Examples of every story ever written are in one another. Finding a similarity to each story is more than just an epiphany, the life of the character is compelling enough to read forward. Flipping page after page, word after word they find more and more clues to where the book is going.

The narrator is a lovely fellow. He has many attributes. He could be smoking a pipe in a paper torn parlor, and he might as well be drinking whisky on a boat deck in the middle of the ocean. The man may in fact be a woman and she might as well be dressed in lace, sitting under the moon planning her next attack. Slicing her wrists, she tells a story of a lad surviving, or dying.

The reader keeps going further and further. They watch every part of the story unfold. Details and numbers, rules and complications. All are there. Unrelated and unimportant, the victim links them together. When one doesn’t match, throw the piece out. But where exactly is the trash? Is the trash off to the side? Is the trash under the stairs or in the bedroom? The theory of “Something can’t turn into nothing” then is stretched. Philosophers ponder at the question, but we keep moving. Pretending that the piece of information is gone, they continue to fill their minds with more of the endless and unimportant other pieces of information. While they move on, the pieces still remain, and the character has not forgotten.

Relations to every story. The character doesn’t have a break through yet, but yet we are still reading. Dead ends lead us no where and the character isn’t ready. The character could be stuck in an alley or in a motel room. Once they read or watch someone else’s life, they steal their identity. They twist and turn the reality of the other so they can fit inside the shoes. They are getting somewhere. Moving forward, we still follow. The idea gets confusing but the reader still moves forward. Faster and faster they move closer and closer to the end.

A dead end. A place where there is no return, no standing still and no moving forward. Simply an excuse, for we hide and wait until we find another pair of shoes. When the shoes have simply worn out, we sit and wait. We are compelled to read further, but we realize there are no more words. The blank pages stare back at us. We then become the character and we feel compelled to write the rest. Not knowing what our fingers are writing or what our mind is telling us, we put down the book and walk.

Walking past the blank pages. Wondering what happens next. We lay awake wondering what happens. Do they find that last piece of the puzzle? Does the girl get the world? Does the man find justice? And even though we have read every other story about a dozen times, and even though we know the ending, we still ponder. We flip through the pages trying to find a scribble, a word, a confession. Similarities are within everything.

The character is similar to the reader. They tell lies to one another. Watching and waiting for another brilliant story to bring them closer to the end. But in every story, there never is an end. A happy ever after or a dead soul always has more to say. They can only say so much in so little space. Writings are on the surfaces of surroundings. Staring into the distance like a mad-man, while their confident fingers do the walking.

Inserting a clue, a sign, a signal. Making every move simple, yet complicated to a certain degree. The story doesn’t have to make sense. The words don’t have to blend together and the ending doesn’t have to have a beginning. The life doesn’t even need a purpose. They don’t even need a point to be made to understand. Curiosity. Wondering what living like the character is like.

The want to sound intelligent is demanding. The wish to be able to write something so profound, that the words would blow the reader away. It causes an obsession. Similarities between stories start there. Reading one story leads to another and hence an idea is born.

No one really needs to understand why the character is writing what they are writing; all they need to know is what the instant gratification of the life is. Sense doesn’t have to be something in stories; sense only needs to fill the empty space.

Empty spaces. Long lines. Fragmented sentences. These make up the story. Never using certain words, breaking the language barrier, confusing the reader. All part of the character’s job.

Now if ‘they’ is someone I know personally, I would feel the urge to write my story of nonsense. Nonsense is just the game. A crazed obsession to drive everyone to insanity. I bet they didn’t even notice the words that were skipped. The hidden clue was over looked. It was thrown but never forgotten. Just two simple words. The obsession is racing, and they have found their new victim.

You’re it.