Thoughts from the night/ imaginary people

Hey guys. It’s pretty late in the night/ early in the morning, but I’m just in the mood to talk to somebody, and there is literally no one else I can talk too.

You know how sometimes you read a book that feeling you get from it stays with you when it’s over? Like, if you’re reading from the first person and suddenly it feels likes that person is in your head, still with you, even when the book has ended?

Well, I get that anyway. Tonight, I was reading “The perks of being a wallflower”, which was brilliant. Maybe that’s why I feel like talking now.

I can hear people moving around my house and it’s freaking me out.

Anyway.

The other night I was thinking about stories, and suddenly got just majorly depressed (to the point where I actually started crying) because it hit me that most of the people I love to spend time with don’t actually exist. They’re just characters someone made up that I carry around in my head.
Or characters I invented for my own stories that over time have come to feel so real to me that’s it’s almost jarring to think that they’re not.

There are these particular two characters I’ve been carrying around since I was about 14 years old, called Will and Charlie. That’s nearly five years I’ve spent thinking about imaginary people. It’s no wonder I feel like they’re real. I feel like I’ve spent more time with them then my actual real life friends. To think that I just made them up, that they don’t actually exist, it seems incredible.

There’s a big difference, I think, between knowing and understanding.

I know characters in books aren’t real, but it’s not something that’s fully comprehendible. And coming across an understanding of that like I did the other night, was so incredibly painful, that I couldn’t stand it.

It feels like an actual, real loss. To think that the characters you love and the ones you hate, the ones that make you feel and think, the ones that stay with you for years, aren’t actually real.

Just, ideas.

Someone’s creation.

I’ve never really had that many friends, and none that have lasted in any meaningful or close way. So, in true loner fashion, I turned to books and characters to fill my brain with ideas about what normal people do and how life works. An impression that turned out to be pretty much entirely wrong, but it made me happy anyway.

I wonder if there is comes a point when you can’t escape real life anymore. When you have to face up to stories being just stories, and all those colorful, fascinating people you carried in your head, being just characters.

Or alternatively, maybe that’s how an author is born.

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