Some days are fictional days.
The last thing you remember is that you were climbing out the window to replace the flag, and then – you’re here. Duvets. Pillows. It’s not real, somehow: it claims to be, but it doesn’t feel the same. You’ve seen beyond it, onto the blank page.
This is your world. It is also new, like it was created from someone else’s memories. The world has so much detail today, and there is joy in everything you notice. Why were you brought here? You don’t know. You don’t feel confined – you have a freedom within you. You could do anything, and anything could happen here.
You think so many thoughts they don’t all fit in your consciousness at once. They end up cycling, round and round. You reach for the words you had, and they vanish under your fingers.
Too many fictional days lead to problems. You become more worried by Daleks than by the cars as you cross the street. Interactions with the normal are unimportant. Nothing has consequences, because everything will proceed according to story whatever you do.
If the joy falls out, that too is a problem. You go from having the power to fix everything, to seeing all the world’s problems and being able to do nothing. You have all this responsibility, but no power, no ideas.
I don’t know what this really is. Dissociation? Dehydration? I don’t quite care. All I know is that words come differently to me at this time, but concentrating on the words – or worse, concentrating on how fictional days work – pushes away the fictional nature. This doesn’t help when trying to explain what’s going on.
I write differently when fictional. Words flow in lines rather than blocks and brackets. It does not matter whether what I write is true – I find that line where even I don’t know whether I believe what I write. I’ve tried to be accurate here, because I need a record of how fictional days feel when I’m back to being real. The feeling does not stay in memory.
I want to write so much but every word is harder than the last. There must be some kind of continuum – I am heading back to reality. I don’t want to. It’s a long time since I’ve had a day like this, and I miss the simple joy of looking. Soon, I’ll be real, tired, with so much I need to do.
Some days, you want the fiction to stay forever.