Tales of Fake

I close my eyes and I try to think of something. I press my lids tightly together and try hard to come up with some grand thought that will put me out of my misery and frustration, but I end up with nothing. All I see is myself lying on my bed, listening to the ticking sound of my wrist watch pressed against my left ear and the annoying noise coming from my almost broken fan next to me. I try to be deep, to think of something meaningful, but nothing. I write what's happening and love the sound of the pen caressing the paper, but nothing good comes out of it. My heart is beating and I can hear it pounding against my chest as I grow more and more frustrated by my hopeless efforts to write something. I hate it when this happens. Have *you* ever tried to put your thoughts and feelings into words but ended up with nothing worth the efforts? Of course you have, but it's never this bad. I'm a writer, or at least I try to be...and when this happens, it's like the worst thing that could happen. All the time, as I walk down the street, staring strangely at the people walking past me, I come up with witty sentences and conversations that would make a great story, but when I set myself in front of my computer or my notepad, my whole mind's a blank. The words are gone, the smart remarks and bright conversations are not there anymore; the colorful characters died or something, but they are not there. So I fight myself and I try to bring them out again, but they fight even stronger than me to keep themselves locked inside my head, tucked away in some dark corner of my mind...ashamed or scared to get out.
I miss the feeling of listening to my own words being read once a story is finished. I miss feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted off my back once I put the final dot on the last page on my last line. I miss typing non-stop, words popping up unexpectedly inside my head, making every sentence worth remembering, every line worth reading.
I hate being the way I am, but at the same time love it as much as I can. It's a passionate hatred the one I feel for my characters. The kind of hate driven by the envy that I feel for every person that lives on my stories because they get to share a moment, a page, a line, a word with every single one of them. I love them to the point where it makes no sense at all and where I become them, and they are me, but they are something I could never even dream of becoming myself. I envy them because they live things I'd be too afraid of living, and I pity them because they get to suffer things I wouldn't ever want to suffer. They are the best and the worst I can come up with, the kind of people I would love to have around at this time of my life and the kind of monsters I would never want to deal with. I live and breath their feelings, I suffer along with them, I laugh at their jokes and have fun when they smile. I get excited when they get their big chance, I love when they love and I hate the people that hurt them. It's a strange relationship, a sick and twisted one sometimes. Still, sometimes, they offer me some sort of comfort and peace that most people cannot give me.