It was a great mistake, my birth as a man. As solitary as a green leaf that refused to fall once autumn came, I had never fit it.
I would have, probably, been more successful as a raccoon or as a sunflower. But I couldn't be those, so I became a writer.
I wrote my own world. With tear-dilluted ink and a determination given by dreams, I built a place where both the quiet and the restless had a purpose of their own.
A place I could, finally, call "home".
But it turned out not to be like that. As I stood amongst my characters, I realised I had been mistaken.
Their belevolent grins and words of praise were meant to replace everything I had been deprived of in real life; but they weren't real, they lacked substance.
Soon enough, I had come to miss the way my heart skipped a beat through the summer heat whenever something embarrassing happened in reality. I had to go back.
With just a single nod of "goodbye", I parted with the people of my creation. Although they would always be a part of my soul, I couldn't forever live inside of me. I had to face the world.