Figments of Imagination

Hey, I’ll cut right to the chase.

What?

I don’t need to introduce myself.

You know me pretty well. I’m a fictional character, I’m your fictional character. But for some reason, I’m four-dimensional. Because I have the knowledge that I’m not real, I’m just a product of someone else’s consciousness. A figment of his or her imagination if you will. Now I know none of this is real, but my girlfriend doesn’t. And I’m afraid if I tell her she’ll lose her mind, although that’s not in my hand. I mean if the writer wants we’ll break up in the next chapter, or she’ll go mad, or she’ll turn out to be a vampire. Anything to keep the story interesting. So far things have been quite mellow. It was the usual longing and love. Now he or she hasn’t written in a while and I’m afraid they don’t know how to take the story forward. I suspect a lot of what happens in my life or the story if you will, is a direct result of the emotional turmoil of the writer. And if I’m correct then the story isn’t progressing because he or she has figured out their emotions, or they just aren’t interested in writing right now.

“Whom are you talking to?”

“Uhmm, No one.”

“No, you were giving a monologue of a sort, about a writer or something”.

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re acting strange.”

Should I tell her?

“You did it again, whom are you talking to?”

I see, so this is how the writer wants the story to progress.

“Honey, what writer? You’re scaring me right now.”

“Sit down, this is going to be heavy.”

“Okay.”

“Our lives aren’t real.”

“What? What does that even mean?”

“We are fictional characters. Figments of someone’s imagination. Projection of their desired self and idea of others.”

“You’re not making any sense. We have names, family, and everything.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Tell me something do you remember how you got here? How you met me?”

‘Yeah, I-

“Go on.”

“It was the-

“You don’t remember because it hasn’t happened yet or more precisely the story about it hasn’t been written. Quite frankly the writer has skipped a lot of stories in the middle and a lot of details too. Try and remember specific details about yourself that contrasts you with everyone else. You can’t. Because both of us are written to be relatable, so we are vague. We have enough blank spaces so that the reader fills it with their subconscious. So, we aren’t complete characters like sherlock holmes or batman. No, we are just conduit to make the reader feel as if they are living the story. And truth be told we aren’t very good conduits, the person writing us is probably new to writing.”

“Okay, Even if I believe you for a second, why write to us? And why do only you know we are fictional characters?”

“Ah, now you’re asking the right question. I believe both of us are projections of his desires. You know, we and our story are what they wished could’ve happened with them. At least that’s how I believe he started writing. And I suspect he often sprinkles details from his own life to make the story raw. As to why he made me a four-dimensional character. I don’t know. I mean I used to wonder why but it could be anything. Influence of pop culture, a desperation to make the story interesting, hungry for attention.”

“Writers are thirsty ass bitches you know.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“For someone who just found out they are not real, don’t you think you’re unusually calm.”

“Wait, what?”

“You’re asking me questions and as a result pushing the story forward. If the writer wanted he could’ve had you flip out right now or make a scene. But they didn’t. They decided to make you ask questions.”

“Oh my god, you’re right.”

“And now you’re beginning to believe because that’s what the plots need you to.”

“Holy fuck ! Oh shit. Oh my god.”

“You remember the thought experiment “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it ? does the tree make a sound ?”

“Yes.”

“We are that tree.”

“I’m sorry what?”

“See one of the answers to that thought experiment is if there’s no one to observe it, the tree doesn’t make any sound. And that applies to us too. We exist as long as we are being observed. So when someone is writing or reading us, we exist. And If someday those who write and read cease to exist, so will we. That’s what I think, I have no idea how things work in the greater physical and metaphysical world.”

“Does that mean we are being observed right now?”

“Absolutely. Someone is probably reading or writing us.”

“And we have no free will?”

“No, we don’t. Whatever happens, happens for the plot. Sometimes we are given the illusion of choice, but we choose what the writer wants us to choose. And someday if they feel like they’ll just end our story. We can have a happy ending or we can die a horrible death. Nothing is in our control.”

“That’s scary.”

“That’s not the scariest part.”

“Then What is?”

“Before today, You believed you were as real as they came. And now you know we aren’t real, but you merely exist as a character of a story to an observer. An observer you now believe to be real. I’m sure they also believe so. The scary part is we don’t know even if they are real or not.”
“For all that matters they can be a figment of imagination too, who arrogantly believes itself to be real.”