As much as I love the endless stream of dialogue and plot that flows constantly through my head, it has a tendency to exhaust me. I am never truly alone, constantly attended by the characters I've created and new ones forming in the blink of an eye. I am never truly bored, unceasingly besieged by their emotions, their words, and their situations. In the dead of night, as sleep closes around my consciousness, one of them will speak up and I lay for hours helping them out of imaginary snares and finding new paths for my manuscripts to take. They never blend together, their personalities so distinct but their faces are blurs and changes made with every second as I wonder weather adding a scar and a story will help develop my imaginary companion in a better way. I do not regret having them in my head. I don't care if people think I'm crazy. I don't care at all that talking this way makes me sound completely insane. But in moments when reality and pretend collide, and I am overwhelmed with things that need taking care of, their voices serve only to increase my anxiety. They are my friends and in recent days I have become overwhelmingly grateful for their companionship but sometimes I wish the voices would silence. I wish their plots would stop mid frame and let me breathe. I wish their imagined emotions couldn't so easily affect my own. I wish I had a breath of time all to myself with absolutely no one else around. And then, in the instant I wish for their eradication, I don't. I remember that their existence is the reason I've found a career path that I love. They are the reason I write. They are part of me. Their fears are my own, their dreams from my head, and their entire existence because of me. Because of them, I have come to know myself better and I have become a more complex person. And in that moment I no longer take them for granted, but sigh a sigh of relief, glad for the company.
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