I was written into this life.

In the paralogue, I wrote little about strife.

As more of the story was written, I saw my own characters.

As I enter the den, pen in hand, I begin to write my own lines.

I first wrote of an acrobat, who swung on ropes like a monkey with its vines.

Yet as my story developed, so did my writing.

My dreams were written onto pages, becoming more than fantasies.

Even as my life's story progressed, my character's lives were written with more detail.

As the paralogue of my life was finished being written, I began to write a story.

I hoped to allow my characters to grow in my writing, just as I have.

I wrote them feeling happiness, sadness, and love.

I wrote a villain to oppose them, but made sure they would prevail.

I write to help myself prevail in my own story.

As I wrote the conclusion to their journey, something in me changed.

I could see countless new stories, begging to be written, to be given life.

I wrote of knights, astronauts, and countless monsters, each with their own story.

I had begun writing part of my own life's story.

The lives I've made written inside my memories.

I wish that the divine author has written a happy ending for me.

My characters were written into this life, and I hope they remain after my story ends.