I can’t write anymore.
What am I going to do with my life?
It’s three o’clock and I’m sitting at my desk.
In front of me lies a sheet of paper.
On it is written Dying Voice.
I struggle to understand the meaning of my words,
but they claim that they were never mine,
they belong to themselves.
From the innocent whiteness of the page
they assert their independence
and accuse me of fraud.
They tell me,
it is impossible to understand
that everything is just as it appears to be.
I had always believed that I was the creator of my words.
That in the act of writing I brought them to life,
made them a part of me.
Patiently they explain.
Anybody could have written them.
It is they who are the creators of my reality.
I look around me at the objects in my room.
Everything I possess is silently present.
They are right.
My world belongs to words.
Without their reality nothing exists.
No illusions of a past, or imaginings of a future.
A great weight lifts from my heart.
I realise that in my reality
I am unreal.