I live inside my head. I live in my mind, and my body is my home. I don't like to leave this home. I don't care for reality. My home is warm and snuggly, and everything is where I place it and where I want it to be. Sometimes people come in and rearrange when I'm not looking. I put everything away when they leave.
Outside of me, I have no control. Outside of my head, other people exist, with other ideas and other emotions and other motives. Outside of me, what I want means nothing. Outside of me, there are lies and undiscovered truths. Secrets. Realities that are not my own.
And then I have to wonder, who's reality is real? If my reality is the one that I know to be true, and it is only true because I don't know the whole truth, then is it really true? Is my reality real?
Because it certainly doesn't seem like it. At least the life I lead in my head, in my home, is something I can rely on. I know it's not real. But at least I can take comfort in that fact.
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