Talking To Myself

I'm insane. I must be.

Is it even possible for someone such as myself to have this view?

I favor my fiction over reality. Sure, it's not real and fiction doesn't live a life with other people in it. Fiction doesn't get up in the morning and wish that by going to the bathroom, she might find that she's lost weight. Fiction doesn't get into car accidents. Fiction doesn't feel pain. Fiction doesn't live; neither does it die.

But why would that be such a bad thing? All these emotions in me that cause a kind of psychological riot would rather be just like fiction; numb and unfeeling. No one wants to get hurt, and if you're going to say, "but what's the point of living?" or "life isn't life without a few risks" then I hope you stop reading right now.

In my fiction, I have so much power. I am a ruthless dictator, an experiment bent on vengeance, a misunderstood nobody, a celebrity, a wealthy sibling of a family of mercenaries, an expert in stealth...a being capable of so many things and things to become. Such power in my mind has no limits. That's the wonder of the imagination. The reason why fiction isn't some conspiracy that we're living in the matrix (that would be stupidity, I believe). In my mind, fiction is the catalyst for the hidden thirst I carry inside. All those moments and situations where I was brutally humiliated, scorned, and ignored become nothing when I don the mental masks of those I have created.

And for what seems like an eternity (at least, until my mother walks in), I actually feel happy.

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