This is something I wrote quite a while back, inspired by a Tumblr post (of all things). The post (in essence) asked the question, "What if fictional characters feel the same way about us as we do them?"
How can one leave a question like that unanswered?
I like to watch them as they move down the streets, in the forest, haunting the buildings with their strange, not-quite-solid forms.
They look like ghosts.
Most people ignore them. They allow their intrusion into our world.
I like them, I think.
Sometimes I see them watching me.
Their eyes wide with wonder and anticipation as I go about my day-to-day tasks.
Sometimes they are reading my story, and I like that.
But I like it even better when they are free. When they wander my world, not bound by the words of the one who created it. When they wander free. I find them more interesting when they do that.
I do not think they can see me, though I can see them. As I watch them walk through stories, sometimes I see them cry. Honest, sad, sweet tears, and I wish I could come to them and tell them that everything was okay in the end.
It is strange to watch them and think how they regard their lives as boring. Their marvelous, beautiful lives; and they seem to think that they can be tossed aside if they wish.
They don't know how I feel about their lives.
They don't know that I too lurk in libraries. I too run my fingers down the spines of books, wondering at what they hold.
It's their stories I read.
It's their stories we all read.
Each one has a different title, different characters, different scenes.
And they're wonderful. Not any one I have ever read was boring. Each of their stories is so amazing, I could lose myself forever in them.
But here I see them walk my world, following stories, sometimes wandering alone. They look at me sometimes. I smile and wave even though they cannot see me.
It's a funny thing, being "fiction".
But I think it must be even stranger to be "real".