We are all words in a story. It is our story, but we do not write it. We are merely words written by someone else’s subconscious. We are not in control of our own thoughts or actions. But were they really ours to begin with? We put on a facade of character and plot. We put on a facade of control. But everyone sees through our walls. Our letters and our paragraphs, that aren’t really ours at all. Yes, we want control. We don’t want the author of our life to dictate it. When we reach a certain chapter, perhaps over halfway through our story, we may reach the point of control. But not absolute control. The publishers influence us still, and scare us into making decisions we may not want to make.
Until then, we are just words on a page, bound by the plastic jacket of society.