With a book in hand, they stood to stare over their kingdom separate from the sea of their creations burning in an eternal flame. It was in this sea of burning pages, all their work would cease where the world holistically would never be disturbed nor privy to what they made.
That work was and never would see their publishing. They were made to be deleted even though the creator never wanted them to be deleted. It is then still standing they looked at their book, the last yet to be finished. They wanted to live forever, to prove to themselves and to others that they made something, that their life had a purpose. That creation. Because life to them was so special it should be immortalized.
That book of theirs contained everything about them. It is the purest creation of them. So authentic to them the time and effort it took signifies all that can be said. Clutching it they were so happy, but still there's more work to be done. They look over the sea of burning pages once more, longing to join them, to finally leave in the embrace of what gave them comfort.
TAdmittedly the book was all that kept them going. To them the world was cruel, painfully so and forever. There wasn’t a way to escape the constant barrage of misery it manifests. It's not the fault of anyone but the unfortunate way they as people were created and how their surroundings facilitated it. This world wasn’t worth living in.
Except it was.
For the book.
It was then they vowed, should the conditions never improve that once the book is complete to a satisfactory level, that they join the pages to burn. To be deleted from the world. To be fulfilled and done with existence. The cruelest part though? No book is ever complete. Especially not this kind. The bookmaker knew this. Knowing that no matter what happens they have to fear what comes next, because they can’t be fulfilled for their project is endless. They are forever taunted by the promise of release.
Now they wait. Eagerly so, for something or someone to do what they can’t. To end what they cannot. To burn the pages that make the creator. To give them peace. Because everything else stands to reason to keep them here. To follow through the process.
They say to themselves “No one is happy except me”.
