Ladies, gentleman, characters of all kind. I come here in a jester of peace and understanding. We are not alone. Not alone in a sense that everywhere around us people move, unnoticed, unseen, sitting with at lunch, watching TV with us, using the bathroom with us.
These entities are not ghosts or phantoms or beings of unsure composure, but of flesh and bone and thought and speech. They are real, they are alive, and all because of you.
They live their lives without knowing of our world, thinking thoughts of their own existence. Breathing air or water and walking, hopping, flying, swimming, and all because of you. Because you wanted them to drink blood and have twenty-four eyes and six and a half feet.
Not only that, you made them grow up in a cemetery and hate humankind. You made them kill and kill and quest for more murder and massacre.
And, then, you made them die.
You killed them off because it was moral, or just, or fun.
You killed off billions and billions and all with one word: Boom. With one word you did what a thousand Hitlers never could. You committed genocide without so much as a few strokes.
But, you also made them love. You made them live a wonderful, blissful life. You made them happy. You made them loving and caring. You made romantic walks on a warm beach at sunset.
The pen will always be mightier than the sword. Because whenever a pen touches paper, and words flow from the tip, you create a world. You make lives or destroy them. Whatever words come from that instrument become real. Why?
Because you are a writer.