OOC: Obviously in the RP I'll write in third person. But I thought this would be a good place to start in response to your opening.
S A M P L E
I am a fraud. For as long as I can reasonably remember Iíve been trapped in my own head, so many thoughts, ideas, and notions. But none of them were my own. I learnt when I was young to curb them, the voices, the imaginings that came to life when I closed my eyes. The looks I got from my parents, friends, teachers, it didnít matter who, they all thought the same thing if I told them the source of my ideas. Crazy. Of course they thought I was crazy, I hear voices, I know enough to know that they are in my head and no means do I define them as reality but I still hear them as clear as day. Still they are there and sometimes when I lie awake listening to the voices I think that the shield of my life, friends, work, it doesnít matter because what I have tried so long to deny is actually true.
I am crazy.
My mind is not my own.
Or at least that is what it feels like sometimes. I think, had it not been for her, I would have spent a great portion of my life medicated. I have my doubts that would silence the voices but itís not a chance I want to take. Iíve gotten used to them, they are a part of me now. Anyway, where were we? Yes. My confession. Like most stories this one involves a girl, but itís not what you think. She was my soul mate in every single incarnation, I loved her like I loved myself. I wasnít in love with her, it was more than that, she was me and I was her. Transcendent and untouchable the friendship was the strongest bond I have ever experienced no matter the distance between us.
We were young when we met but she shaped who I was, who I would be, completely and utterly. If I could look back at my life and pinpoint the moment in which my entire life was defined, it was the first time I made her smile. A lost little lamb that had the weight of the world on her shoulders. I had never fit in, I was bullied because I was different, I didnít like sports and by the age of seven I had memorised a substantial portion of classic literature. Other boys raced around the playground pretending to be in fast cars, or cowboys; I wanted to be Sherlock. I was entranced by Tolkien, obsessed with Austin, broken by Bronte, invigorated by Dickens and utterly besotted with Chaucer. The subject mattered little, it was the words. The worlds whether similar to mine or fantastical had exactly the same effect, sweeping me away from reality and mollifying the insistent spill of creativity my brain needed.
The first morning I met her she looked broken, shy and not at all confident in my conversational abilities Iím not sure why I approached her that first time. Fate? The world I created for her that day, the stories, I conjured up the undeniable magic of imagination and childish youth, ye they were not my creations, they were simply the things the voices had been whispering to me for years. When she smiled my world changed and I realised that these imaginings, these games as she called them could be so much more than I had seen before. From that moment on I focused on her and making her smile. Never before had I divulged my ideas, pretending that the things we did were playful games and not just the delusions of a crazy man. It was she that turned me into a writer, a release; I had never foreseen an outlet for these until she blossomed beneath the web of fantasies I spun around us.
Reality was something that happened when she wasnít around, together we were immortal and unstoppable.
This is my confession Alexandra; these words in this book do not belong to me, the ideas belong to the chemical imbalance in my head. The things clawing at my mind trying to break free and spilling onto pages almost independently of my intent.
I finished your book today.
The one I have been writing for two years, the one I was going to dedicate to you, I was writing it desperately so that I could give it to you on your birthday but it hardly seems to matter now. You died today but they donít see what I do. Youíre in these pages and youíre in my head, I can hear you to now and I wonít let you go. If I have to spin my reality to keep us together then I will. So help me God I will see you smile again as I think it will be the only thing that breaks through the shroud of devastation that is so painful I can feel it in every cell in my body. I wonít be without you because if you die, I die. Youíre me and Iím you. Untouchable and unstoppable, remember?
I will save you, even if I lose myself in the process.
C A L L M E
Elliot "Lee, Otty or Leaky" Kiley
I A M
Twenty Years Old
K N O W M E
Elliot is a tortured, distracted man. Or at least this is the way he presents himself whenever possible, itís true that he likes a drink but who doesnít? Sometimes he had been known to drink alone but only when the thoughts in his head really need drowning out. If you didnít know him very well you would likely think he was a well-adjusted, ambitious and talented boy with a lot of friends and a very real chance of making it big. Not really a party boy, he doesnít look very much like the bookworm people closer to him know he is. Exercise and writing are his two vices, if heís not typing away frantically on a keyboard heís jotting in a notebook. If he doesnít have a book to hand heís scrawling on desks, hands, anything to try and hold onto the ideas that spill from him like a fountain. When heís at the gym he works out hard enough to block the endless waterfall of creation in his head. His parents do not speak to him, or so he will tell you, in truth itís him that never returns their calls and it breaks his motherís heart. But they donít understand.
They want him to be happy, but how can he ever be happy until his ideas are out there blossoming in both young and old minds alike. Words lighting up pages so that everybody can see the magic he can create with something so simple as words? His utter detestation for anybody that doesnít understand how much impact and effect words can wield is obvious to all.
He grew up poor, very poor, which did a lot of prepare him for a life as a starving author. As such he was lucky to get a creative writing scholarship to a university in New York. He took the chance, moved to New York but rejected the scholarship. Creativity couldnít be taught and he wasnít going to spend years listening to self-proclaimed wordsmiths telling him what he already knew. Or worse trying to curb his magic. Moving wasnít what he wanted, leaving his best friend was the hardest thing he had ever done but it was also the inspiration for his first novel. A novel that propelled him into the writing world spectacularly. The literary word were waiting with baited breath now to see whether this was a one hit wonder or the literary revolution of their age. It all hinged on his second book but years passed and it didnít transpire, the world breathed again and Elliot buckled under the frustrations of too many ideas.
Putting his second book on hold, Elliot wrote something much more personal. It was their world, the one he had shared with Alex for all those years, their private world, the delicate weaving of reality and fantasy that he had created just for her. It flew onto paper as if it was made to be and after just four months it was perfected just in time for his best friendís birthday. A friend his soul had ached for every day. Preparing to fly back home for his birthday he packed the book as a surprise and was filled with hope.
But it was never meant to be.
Since her death Elliot has been reclusive and broken, his dependency on alcohol and other substances are increasing and it seems like heís trying to hold onto the bliss on unconsciousness. But why ever could that be?