Martyr of my own mind. That's what I call it. I live inside my own head. I'd rather be with my characters than my friends. The only thing that can calm me down or lift my mood is going inside my own head.
It's nice, not having to exist for a while. I'm not me, I'm simply The Writer, an entity, an onlooker. I notice everything. I do that in real life, too, but in real life I can only imagine what's going on in other people's minds. Some people wish they could control their daydreams, but for me, I would be destroyed if they ever went away. A few times, my world I've created has been one of a few things keeping me going.
Even when I'm living in the real world, I'm not completely. That kid that sits across from me in art reminds me of one of my characters. I'm going to watch him, just people-watch for a little bit, and when I overhear those boys say that about him in the hall, I can't even give him a sympathetic look, I'm already trapped in my own head, making a similar thing happen to my character.
I don't really feel trapped. I can leave, if I want to. I just don't. Music, TV, movies, regular things people say and do pull me back in.
Maybe I'll share some things about my characters sometime. They're my most prized possession- that is, if you can count thoughts as possessions. Only one person knows their names- my younger cousin, who wanted to know who my plants were named after.
My whole family thinks I'm a writer. I am, just more than they think. For every scene I decide is good enough for the book and write down, there's a hundred more deemed just good enough to stay in my head.
I don't know if I'll ever try to get it published. I can't bear the thought of sharing the thing that matters most to me with people who will never understand them like I do.
I can never get close enough to my world. I've tried shifting, and it didn't work the couple months I tried it.
I talk to them sometimes. I know they're not real, but i can feel them.
Even if I'm just crazy. I'm trying to sleep and he asks me what's wrong and it all feels so real, maybe he's real too, or maybe we're both made up. They always know just what to say, even though I write them. Somehow they know what to say and I don't.
When I was little, I did this too. I had different characters over the years, different stories, but all original. It doesn't feel the same when I use characters from TV or books, they have to be mine. I acted the stories out with dolls, and Legos- I made models of the houses and places I was
of, and designed each Lego person to look like the characters. Over the years, I thought it was silly that I was still acting out my little stories. I kept the Lego people in my pillowcase so I could still feel their indents in the fabric as I used my stories to fall asleep. Now I just have a necklace with seven wooden beads, one for each of my characters. It's like how some people keep a photo of someone they love in a locket, close to their heart.
My people only exist to me.
Maybe they're extensions of myself, or maybe I'm just an extension of them.
I'm just wondering if someone understands this, or me at all.