Crazy
Sometimes, I sit here and ponder how my imaginary friend that I put on paper would act in response to an imaginary stimulus. How would combat would work if we could shoot flames from our fingertips? How much slowly immolating hate can a good man take before devolving into a mess of the shards of his former dreams? How can the world change if one person made the choice to say "no more?"
Sometimes these thoughts make me question if I'm nuts, if I've been hit in the head too many times, if I've been hitting the markers and glue too hard, if I should be locked up and confined with a strait jacket and a padded room.
But when I have those thoughts, I try to hang on with just my fingertips off the edge of despair, and cling to the last shreds of my sanity. My thoughts then turn to a familiar warmth embracing me.
Sometimes it's an arm around my shoulders and a pat on the back, telling me I did awesome, and I should have no regrets. The older sibling I never could find.
Sometimes it's a stern look and the thinly veiled impressed smirk. The father I never knew.
Sometimes it's the embrace as I tear up, crying into a woman's wonderful dress as she shares its cloth for me as if it were simply tissues. The mother that has left me.
But every time I remember these imaginary figments around me, I remember that my heart IS my home. I don't have to look anywhere else.
If wanting to stay at home is crazy, I have no desire to be sane.