Revision #3

Original - 
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. He said I had a gift. He told me that a person can do whatever they like when they write. He smiled when he told me, knowing that he’d just given me the secret to unlocking Pandora’s Box. I came to discover that he was right. When I write, I can escape, cross over into some other world where the boundaries of time and space don’t exist. If I wanted, I could build a trampoline out of clouds and propel myself up into the night. I could even dance with the stars. I could set with the sun and glow like the moon. I could make an invisible key and unlock myself from any cage. I might even be able to fly without wings. I can ride whales across an ocean that’s truly blue and I’d never have to hold my breath. When I write, I can create a world all my own. My father told me I could. He wouldn’t lie, not to me. I could be the founder of an alien colony on Neptune who tries to make contact with Earth, or I could be the leader of a herd of dragons. I can write and leave everything and everyone behind. It’s a voyage I often take alone, although it is not necessary to be alone. I could take any companion with me, even if they’ve been claimed by the grave centuries ago. Even if they never existed at all. But I like to be alone. I can do whatever it is I happen to please. But my world is starting to crumble. I can feel it, like a poison just on the tip of my tongue. If I move or bend back, the poison will slide down my throat. I can see elements of this place I’ve created slipping into the cracks of places I didn’t build. I shouldn’t be scared, but I am. I’m frightened. The whirlpool of a life that isn’t real is beginning to engulf me. I can feel the darkness and light battling just under the surface of the wind, their war invisible. Fire bubbles beneath the unbroken tread of the waters, ready to emerge the moment my heartbeat flutters. I can’t even move on solid ground now, the foundation shutters and falls away, and I am left with gravity’s betrayal. My father would be ashamed. Now, I do the only thing I know how to do. I write, I escape. And I know there will come a day, soon, where my writing swallows me. When I escape forever, and am never allowed to return. I look forward to it. Then I went back into the house and write, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.  
Revision - 
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. He said I had a gift. I didn't quite realize what he meant when he used the word gift. At that age, every gift is one wrapped in green paper, under the tree until Christmas. I didn't realize what having a gift meant. It wasn't until I really began working a pencil and paper that I truly began to realize what it meant. He would read the scrawl I'd scribbled down on a blank canvas and weep. He said it was beautiful. He said I was beautiful. But when I read whatever story I was working on that day, I'd see nothing more than grey letters. They meant nothing. In time, I began to force myself to see something better. To see whatever it was my father saw. He told me I could travel the world without leaving my room. He told me that a person can do whatever they like when they write. He smiled when he told me, knowing that he’d just given me the secret to unlocking Pandora’s Box. I came to discover that he was right. In school, the teachers and my classmates began to see my potential. At first, what I experienced was fits of angry jealously from the other students. It was awful. I didn't understand what they wanted, they wanted something I couldn't give them, And even knowing I couldn't give it too them seemed to fuel the anger. But over time, everyone realized that I was something far too special for petty emotions. They realized that I was not to be written off. When I write, I can escape, cross over into some other world where the boundaries of time and space don’t exist. If I wanted, I could build a trampoline out of clouds and propel myself up into the night. I could even dance with the stars. I could set with the sun and glow like the moon. I could make an invisible key and unlock myself from any cage. I might even be able to fly without wings. I can ride whales across an ocean that’s truly blue and I’d never have to hold my breath. When I write, I can create a world all my own. And as I continued to create this world, I began to grow unsatisfied with my own. I began to see the vibrant summer grass as listless and dull. The moon was nothing more than a rock in the sky. Life became ugly and worthless. And I came to realize that I had an addiction. I became addicted to a drug that only I could supply. But what did it matter? I could create anything I wanted, couldn't I? My father told me I could. He wouldn’t lie, not to me. I could be the founder of an alien colony on Neptune who tries to make contact with Earth, or I could be the leader of a herd of dragons. I can write and leave everything and everyone behind. It’s a voyage I often take alone, although it is not necessary to be alone. I could take any companion with me, even if they’ve been claimed by the grave centuries ago. Even if they never existed at all. But I like to be alone. Alone is what I do best. It feels like I've been alone all my life. I see the other people around me, but they look like stick figures. Little stick figures without a life or a mind of their own. It's like they walk in a constant fog, and my head sticks out just barely above the cloud cover. Every once in a while I want to join them. I feel the desire to hold my breath and shove my head down into the dark abyss and let their stick figure world take me away. But I know I can't do that. I couldn't survive in their universe. And besides, my little planet is beautiful, isn't it? I can do whatever it is I happen to please, can't I? I always thought I could, my father said I could. He's gone somewhere, somewhere I can't follow. My world is starting to crumble. I can feel it, like a poison just on the tip of my tongue. If I move or bend back, the poison will slide down my throat. I can see elements of this place I’ve created slipping into the cracks of places I didn’t build. I shouldn’t be scared, but I am. I’m frightened. The whirlpool of a life that isn’t real is beginning to engulf me. I can feel the darkness and light battling just under the surface of the wind, their war invisible. Fire bubbles beneath the unbroken tread of the waters, ready to emerge the moment my heartbeat flutters. I can’t even move on solid ground now, the foundation shutters and falls away, and I am left with gravity’s betrayal. My father would be ashamed. Now, I do the only thing I know how to do. I write, I escape. And I know there will come a day, soon, where my writing swallows me. When I escape forever, and am never allowed to return. I look forward to it. Then I went back into the house and write, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.