I’m the most real person I know.

It’s cold outside. The kind of cold that you can’t get rid of, the kind that penetrates to you bone. There’s a kind of moody feeling about it. The kind that can only be felt by somebody real.

Sometimes I wonder if there is someone more real than me. Someone who feels more deeply. Someone who dreams brighter. I understand the illusion, for the most part. My ideas that have become more of a reality to me than the ones of those around me. It’s a dark thought, I get it, I don’t take it lightly. For some, the very idea of giving voice to such an ugly idea would give them the willies, but then again, they’re not as real as I am.

If you punch me I feel it, but what happens when you fall down? Nothing. It’s the great divisor among men. I’m not empathy deficient, but all I can feel is my past in you, nothing more, nothing less.

Faith. The little bit inside of me that says: “Come on. Come on. Just a little farther, just a little closer to the edge.” The part of me that tells me to jump off the cliff of uncertainty in to the possibility of madness and God. There is very little to be done on the edge but once inside the pit you’re either delusional or meaningful. And this, this one small part of me holds on to idea of real. The idea that others are what they seem. The idea that someone, or perhaps, everyone, is more real than me.