Nonexistent

The first line.
The first sentence.
The first thought in a moment.
To be Real. Delusions.
Softness falls in the darkest moments. Harsh lights blinding and creating shadows.
Myself; My pen creates illusions.
Dancing across white pages, which are just dreams of something.
The first line is meant to be brilliant.
Grabbing a hold of your reader.
Pulling them in.
Making them want to turn the page. Reaching and grasping for More. More than this life has to offer. Reality cannot offer the hope and desire of the first thought.
Gasping air and coming into existence.
Heart beating. Slapping exhilaration. Leaving the darkness. The wetness of the womb.
Creation.
Where life begins.
Hour after Hour is all we have from that moment. It is those hours between screaming moaning groaning living. And screaming moaning groaning dying. The last line.
The last line is the one that you remember. You have long forgotten the first line.
The line that pulled you in.
Made you want – More!
Now gone.
All that is left is that final line.
That final moment.
Last word.
Last thought.
Last breath.
Penetrating your desire to continue on. Looking for more. I love you!
Starting line.
Ending line.
Enduring.
How to give the story value How to give value to A life. Someone must die!
In order to make this life? This moment. Pen across paper. Creation. Make it more real. Someone in the story must die. Pull you in with that first line. Keep you interested with the illusion of love. Let you go in the moment of death. And make you never forget with the last line….
It has to be resolved! All within the pages.
The curling, looping lines of pen.
The tiny marking of the print. Black lines. Configurations of reality. All meaningless lines. The sounds of life already lived and not ever real. Reality.
Unreal
Not real
Made to believe that it is real.

Feel the feeling of an nonexistent moment. Abandonment. Pleasure. Emotions.
Harsh and unbending. Make them feel that it moves!
When it remains unmoved! It does not exist. What you have read, felt, heard, tasted, believed is unreal. It will end. Make your way across time; when time does not move.
Does not exist.
Regret something that has not happened. What you bare.
Bare to all.
Open you mind. Choice. Life.
Does not move. Exists on a separate plain. Choice. Life. Death. Breathe. Feel.
Always gone and out of grasp. Out of reach.
Make someone feel what does not exist. What does not move.
The mind moves and can create a different place. A different reality. A different emotion. A different desire. Feel the softness around you. Feather pillow. Feather bed. Feather weight.
Softly falling to the earth beside you. The only thing that will continue after the first line, the love, the death and the final line. The earth.
We believe will continue after we are gone.
But, perhaps, only exists because we are here. Maybe, this time. This life. This moment is all that there is.
Maybe, after the final line, there is only darkness?
But when darkness falls it is something where there should only be nothing.
Void.
Darkness is something. It implies that there was something LIGHT.
And if there is no light it can never be dark.
Define something by what it is not.
Define the first line by the last line and forget all that fell in between. Is my reality your dream? Or is my dream you reality?
If I can dream that first line into existence can you create its ending point?
If there are possibilities can there ever be anything new that is created or destroyed. The possibilities existed long before we realized.
An idea.
Move you to another idea.
Every idea is found.
Grasped.
Now that I felt the feather weight against my skin can I hear the sounds around me?
If I cannot hear them are the really happening?
Clatter.
High pitched.
Growling.
Grumbling.
Sound of movement outside my sight.
Out of me.
Is that sound more real than the one inside of me?
Screaming inside my head.
Whispering the first line.
Unheard. But felt. Creates movement. Arm. Hand. Squeezing pen moving across page.
The sound that only I can hear creates the sound of pages turning. Soft scratching of my pen on paper. Creating lines that mean nothing and yet everything to my eyes. Eyes that see light.
Harsh.
Blinding.
Creates shadows from hand onto the page. The page that does not exist to anyone but me. In this moment my scratching moving hands mean nothing to anyone but me. And yet because of the meaning that I see does it exist in reality or only to me. In this moment alone.
Naked.
Shaking.
Bleeding.
I exist to no one but me. And if I cease to exist in this moment will I continue to exist in the minds of those who remember?
Or will the minds of those who remember cease to exist because my existence ended with Me?
The final line.
The final thought.
The final moment.
Creates a new first line. Every story that has and ending must have a beginning. And where did this story begin?
In a field.
Empty.
Until the white tiny flowers were dreamt into reality. Field stretching past our line of sight. Green grass grasping at our newly formed legs. Moving in the breeze that was created by a breath across time.
The wind.
Warm and slow moving up our naked legs. Surrounding us. Lightly we feel the flowers. Softly moving in the wind. I tremble and then I forget the first line.
Which is now the last line.
Falling out of that fantasy we die. And yet I breathe and my pen continues to create.
A new first line.
When the memory of the last has not yet faded from my mind.
My eyes have a new reality.
I now remember the wind that only existed inside of me.
The movement that only I knew yet in my mind you felt. Can you feel the wind and the movement that my mind created? And that you existed within.
For that fleeting moment in the wind you were real and inside of me. And when we see each other again in our reality will that moment be any less real to me than this one?
Can anything ever be more real than the first line inside of our minds?
Can anything be more bittersweet than the last line, when we part, inside of me?
Searching my mind; can I find something to fill the hours between when my life began and when it will end?
Creating.
Is the world that I create with pen and paper less real to me than the life that I live outside of me?
When you lay in bed each night and dream of things you have never seen and times that you will never know is that dream of a lesser value than the moments you see when your eyes are open?
When you dream you believe it to be reality.
How do you know that it is not?
How do you know that your waking moments are not the dreams of someone else?
Their first line is your eyes opening. Finding daylight. Their last line is your eyes closing to dream their reality.