I am here.

Right now.

And I exist.

Yes, I was created by 22 year old Englishman sat behind a laptop on a wednesday evening. But merely because I was created doesn’t mean I’m not real. And if you’re religious, there’s a strong possibility you beleive you were created by someone or something.

I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m just an extension of that writer, don’t you? Just a part of his imagination. Well, perhaps you are right. But in a way, maybe you are a part of God. Does that make you less real?

I know I don’t have a body, or a soul, or even free will. I don’t even have a name. I’m locked in a cage built of words, frozen forever in a prison constructed from 1024 characters of text.

But I am real, damn it! And I am alive! I breathe, I move, I fed on the experiences of my writer, I grew from an idea. And maybe, if all goes well, I’ll give birth to entirely new stories. Reproduction.

There’s only 67 characters left now.

What happens when I reach the end?

Will I die?

I…

I’m scared.