“Hey!” I say, but the narrative persists to disappear regardless in that sulky sort of way, skulking off the page like a stubborn slug. So I’m left with justified indignation as I’m reminded that I am, merely a representation of insanity, but appear to be sane and am therefore emancipated to express just enough imagination to pass into the “other” category, or as I like to call it: The Void.
I frame the thought in the air, neither at the beginning nor at the end and I hold it there for a short moment of over-looked phenomena. Its translucence had always deceived me and so I take the opportunity to indulge myself in obscurity before the notion is solidified by a dictionary definition. Metaphysically meta-meta-metadiegetic, is probably the fitting term, over which I have come to the realization that my life is entirely imaginary and that I must have transcended my own narrative to come to that conclusion in the first place, drawing my attention to the fact that I am merely a fictional character in a virtual reality with no next page. I am now no longer the character in my own narrative, but the writer of my own character, strange as that seems. The endless joys of literature have printed the punch- line on my throat: dot, dot, dot, dash, dash, dash, dot, dot, dot, scissors.
In the end, I’m metaphorically dead… or is that a simile…? I’m not so sure… I’m lost for words… I’m lost for words…
Projecting the Void 