The sun shines through my eyes at the small apartment complex inside my mind. Another calm day in paradise. They’re not awake yet, the bastards. They get to sleep in whenever they want and I can’t do a damn thing about it. You’d think I would, since they’re my characters, but no, they’ve developed a mind of their own now, after all these years.

The curtains flick softly in the breeze, casting smooth shadows across the boring cream-coloured carpet. It’s not my fault that I can’t furnish the apartment in a more interesting way. I have too much on my mind anyway.

Oh the irony.

I’m not sure when the contract was signed that my mind was to become a one-roomed apartment (open-plan, with large windows on either side to catch the sunrise and sunset), but nonetheless, my characters now run full pelt inside my head; running into walls and slamming doors. Every so often demanding new coffee tables or tea sets.

It’s a bit crowded… I think of new characters daily and they calmly move in, without disturbing any of the others. They all know each other, all come from the same source; all of them have some part of me in them. I’m surprised they don’t argue: I’d argue if I met another person exactly like me on the street. And I also still can’t understand how they all fit in: I can count at least 30 sleeping bags strewn across the floor starting from the kitchen, and ending at the huge four-poster bed with red velvet hangings. Not my idea. Got that one from a book. Most of my furnishings come from books I read or films I watch.

Only my favorite characters get that bed. Every so often they swap; depends on my mood.

Once in a while, characters from books I read come to visit: smiling only with their mouths and not their eyes as they regard the humble abode that my characters inhabit. Then they return to their huge mansions built for them by fame. This should be enough for me to call in the demolition squad. But instead, I light my metaphorical cigarette and blow smoke at their receding backs. Screw them. I’ll build a mansion someday too. With a pool.

Shadow covers my world as I blink. I always wonder if they hate it when I blink… it must be the most awkward feeling: having sun one second and dark the next. But if they hate it they don’t show it.

My characters never age. It’s as though they’re all immortal, not just the ones who have it imprinted into their history that they are. It’s a scary feeling, playing God. I hold the book of life in my hands, writing things and crossing things out. With one word, one could die. Or move out, if he’s chosen by someone else to be written about. That doesn’t happen too often. I’ve never been fanfic-ed. Most of the time, they come home with bruises and broken limbs and sleep it off, only to wake up the next morning good as new: bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Like squirrels.

Here we go: the early risers are stirring. Jake, Philip and Jess. Two of them don’t sleep anyway; the third usually stays up late. Work demands, you know. So many of them share the same profession that it’s not even funny anymore. And so many have been written into more than one story that they have insanely twisted family trees. A lot of them share age and birthdays too. Poor guys… I should really be more original next time I create one.

I sigh and lie down, picking up a book I’ve recently rescued from the basement of the public library. I smile flatly, pursing my lips together making them go white. Be prepared guys, new visitors on their way. It’s days like these I feel really sorry of my characters: whenever I’m depressed I read insanely quickly, devouring books within hours of picking them up. I’m up to my third already, and it’s only the second day I’ve had them. My babies have been bombarded with visits from over 12 characters already. I can feel my apartment groan at the over-population it already has to sustain.

I’ve tried to evict them, I really have. I’ve set fire to my apartment many times. They always come back. A bond a child has to its mother? I don’t think so. Just a lack of places to go. I should drown them. Bury them alive. But I can’t. I guess I’m too attached to them now… besides, the ones I did end up killing off, float around the apartment as phantoms. I open the book.

It’s another Strugatsky book. I just finished one which I loved. One of my favorite films was based on it. These brothers are amazing writers, they really are. Their characters light up the crummy apartment every time they enter it. Then of course they leave for their mansions. But at least they say good bye. Many don’t bother. I read the first page and then stop. It’s hard to read philosophy when you’re not in the mood. Wonderful. Now I have NOTHING to do.

All I want, right now, is to scream till my throat rips open. Instead I get up and make some tea.

The day wears on. My characters come and go from the apartment, going to work, to lovers, to death and beyond. Some sleep all day. Others sit at the windows and look deep within me, smiling sadly and touching the glass. I wish they’d go away. I hate seeing them so bored and in pain. They’d be much better off in the mind of a talented writer who’d get them on a page that would evolve into a four-storied house with a fountain and limo. But they won’t leave.

It’s evening now. It gets dark early this time of year, and that’s good. I like the dark. It’s starting to rain too. Joy of joys; pathetic fallacy at work yet again. I love that expression: pathetic fallacy. Sounds so… pathetic. I use it a lot. My characters hate me for it. My friends hate me for it. I’m not original anymore. And yet, pathetic fallacy is at work, and I’m prepared to drown myself in the toilet of the ensuite bathroom.

Alex likes the rain. She always goes out and gets herself drenched in it. I wish I could. We did two days ago, while running after school to a pizza place for lunch. My bag weighed 30kilos. I weighed it at home when I finally got there. I wish I was back at school. I miss it whenever I have nothing to do at home. And right now, home isn’t the brightest place to be: I’m completely ignored. Like a stray dog that rolled in something gross. Like a field full of cows. I sigh and walk over to the window, looking out. I can see myself reflected perfectly in the dark window: I’m looking at the tiny apartment in my head: the lights are on, some are having dinner, others sleeping. Three of them sit and look at me through the glass. One reaches out a hand and strokes the glass slightly, smiling a bit and I smile back. He waves. It’s either Hamlet or Connor. Probably Connor. I wave back and close my eyes, sighing.

It’s not raining in my head. The apartment windows reflect the moon as it rises slowly into the sky. How I wish I could enter their world and live a life of staring endlessly out the window into the mind of my writer.

But maybe I do, who knows.