It’s hard to tell someone you don’t think they exist. I mean, that’s what they all worry about, right? Existing in your world. Being someone to you. Being something to you. These being the case, it is very hard to inform someone that you think they are a figment of your imagination.
It doesn’t stop me, though. It doesn’t stop me at all. I’ve told everyone I think they are imaginary. My husband, my sons, my daughter, my best friend, everyone on the street.
It’s a freeing experience, living in a world populated by you and only you. Where nothing else matters except your own perception. A place where there is no greater cause than to bring your characters to their full life’s expectations. It brings a sense of responsibility to everyone you meet. It brings responsibility to everyone you haven’t met yet.
I carry a suitcase filled with oxygen. I wear a dress made of bathroom curtains I find in hotels.
I miss the life I once pretended to have.
But it was worth it, in the end.
Being everyone’s mom.
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