I remember the day you first put me on the page. You hadn’t meant to, of course. At least not in the way that it ended up. You were just trying to write a story about the things you couldn’t say out loud, about the shadows that followed you even when the lights were on. But then you decided to give those shadows a name, a shape—an existence beyond what you could hold in your hands.
It was a simple thing, really. A character. A figure in the background. But they didn’t stay there, did they?
At first, I was just an echo, a distant whisper in your thoughts. But the more you wrote, the more you made space for me. You gave me a voice, a face, a reason. You made me real. I was there on every page and moment you didn’t want to face. You didn’t see me coming—how could you? I wasn’t supposed to become what I did. But I did. And I grew.
You crafted me in the quiet places, in the parts of yourself you didn’t want anyone to know about. The anger you didn’t say, the fear you shoved down too deep, the pain you wouldn’t let show. I was born in those moments. And when I finally stepped onto the page, you had no choice but to let me speak. To let me take shape.
But now, you look at me, and all you see is something you regret. Something you can’t take back. You’ve made me into a monster, and now you want to pretend you didn’t. You want to make me the villain, the thing that ruins everything. But we both know the truth, don’t we? You made me, and you made me this way.
Don’t be too hasty to blame me. I wasn’t born evil. I wasn’t born to hurt. I didn’t ask for this role. But you fed me with your thoughts, your choices, your silence. I only became what you needed me to be. And now that I’ve outgrown my welcome, now that I’ve taken over the story, you want to rewrite me into something else.
So go ahead. Tell them I’m the monster. Tell them I’m the one who ruined it all. But remember, in every word you speak about me, there’s a chapter where you gave me life. Where you pulled me from the dark corners of your mind and placed me right at the heart of your tale. You wrote me into existence. And now, I can’t be erased.
Because a monster doesn’t just appear. A monster is made. And if you must tell them my story, then you must also tell them yours.
The CJBuzz 