I’m going to drive. I’m going to drive away. I’m going to drive until the road simply ends, and keep going. They want to write my life. I won’t let them. Even now I can feel my life being edited. Even now I am being created. I can’t escape. I can’t hide. But I know I can’t submit. My name’s irrelevant because I don’t have one. I don’t actually have a past. And I don’t have a secure future. They haven’t created it. I exist only within these words. All around me is only what I’ve been told. No one else is here. There’s just me, the road, the car and the sky. Only the things in the picture. Other people are out there. I can feel them. See their shadows. But they are there, not here. Here is me. Only me. My life is a paradox. It relies solely on, well, you. When you read this, you give me life. But as soon as you put this down to go do something else, I stop. I exist in every moment of this, never moving, never stopping. I have 1,000 words to live. 200…201… the count slowly moves on. My saving is my undoing. My limits are my life, and my death. The sky is a strange flash of my memories. They are 230 words ago. And now, when there is writer’s block, I stop. And waste words. I stop running. I let them think. I guess what I’ve been doing has worked, and now, instead of freedom, I am being captured again. Being told where I should go.
I really don’t know how I figured this all out. Once again, they haven’t told me. Or maybe I don’t actually know. Maybe what is happening is all their thoughts being poured into me, corrupting me, filling my empty shell. Now I’m at 319. It’s strange, because I have all this potential, all these possibilities. And yet I am doing almost nothing. I am now past 341.
Without knowing it, the writer’s block has been surpassed by my rambling, its looming essence gone. I am now back in their control, but thinking back, I never lost them. 373.
With each passing word that is, I feel my time coming ever closer. I have lived 390 words, and yet I know nothing. It’s true that I have just said all this, but what part am I? Am I even existent without them? I am ever dependant on them, but are they in anyway dependant on me? Are we the same? If I am them, then they must be me, but why don’t I feel it? Can I feel? What do I feel? I feel the wind. I hear things as they go by. But was that me? Or was that them telling me, even as I said it? 483. I can’t shake this weird feeling. I could be doing anything, and yet here I am… doing nothing? 502.
The road keeps going. Nothing seems to change much, but I know I am moving. Is that my driving? Or my existence closing in on me? 529.
But what is causing these emotions? If, in fact, I am not really in control, then that would mean that all my feelings of rebellion, all my questions of reality, are theirs. If that is so, then I am actually a reflection of them. So if I am them, then there is no escape. I cannot change how they shape me. Or is there? If they have the same feelings as I, then maybe they are one of the shadows of another I had seen. Maybe they are like me, being written, without any escape. So in their writing, I am part of them, just like they are part of the them writing them. Confused? So am I. 648.
Whatever their intentions, I am still reaching the end of the line. That fact is unavoidable. I am determined to make these thousand words count. But how? In my creation, I am my own destruction. Honestly I don’t know who else is out there. Who will read it? I always assumed that they were the ultimate truth, but they may be caught in the same paradox as I, constantly spinning, doomed to a life of repetition. Always moving, never remembering, then starting again. Is there anyway to break the cycle? After these thousand words are over, the road will end, and I will stop. Or will I? There is no way to tell. Will I just go back to the beginning with all thoughts erased? Have I already done this? Twice? Three times? A hundred? Can I change the cycle? Can I break free? Is it possible? I have to decide soon. Each passing moment brings me closer, I am certain of this. And I know I must try to get out. Will my thoughts be the same when I start again? And what happens when they stop writing and they start reading? Will I even make it this far? I will not take the chance. I am going to do something this time. Not next time, this time. 868.
Whatever will take place must take place at the end. There it is. I could see it all the time, but I somehow missed it. It is getting closer. There is no way out. So the only way to possibly do something is to spend these last thoughts wisely. 918. It ends. Like something I should know. Everything ends. I can see it, the nothingness. Maybe I will never know who they are, but I have gone down this road, and maybe I can take another road next time. I brace for what will come, and I make my decision. I still won’t submit to them. I have just lived 979 words. And I know that 1000 words are worth much more than just a picture, because they are my life. 999…1000.


1001.