Realism

Research is the bane of my existance.

What I write needs to make sense, it needs to be accurate, at least to the best of my ability. No, I can't just use a random acid, it needs to be perfect. No, the escape route can't be through a freaking window, how does that make sense? People could see.

So instead I stay stuck, same situation, same character, same issue. As I try and solve the problem they wait. And wait. And wait.

If I grow bored of research they never return to action. I don't mourn, I promise to return and continue their lives through their story, to extend their existance until the proper conclusion. I haven't, not yet. Not a single piece is brought to it's conclusion, instead the story lies in wait for one day of release from their frozen states within a statis screen.

I can't apologize. I know I will do it again, there's no way I will manage to hold onto the tails of my story and draw it's body back towards the pages to lay in black ink.

Instead it lays underneath the digital gravestone markers within the files of my computer. They don't ask to be recovered, they aren't yet loud enough to have a voice. They haven't been taught how to scream with all the personality I have added, they haven't existed long enough to know.

And so I leave them, hundreds of newborn pages lost in though. I do visit their graves, but none call out. I present their new siblings with the hope the new one will be fully brought into the world.

Only a few are successful yet, a few that haven't laid to rest with the others.

But still I don't mourn.