When Worlds Collide

A writers brain often runs away with itself. It can create and evoke emotion from words alone. Sometimes, we lose ourselves in characters, in ways not understood even to us. I created one once, a man. A total figment of my imagination. I convinced myself for 18 months that he existed. A dark, handsome musician from far away, something worldly, charismatic, electrifying. He sang for me, played guitar and piano late into the night. Called me a dozen times a day, told me I was beautiful, special. That he loved me. Over time, he became this real person I talked about by name. How could something so shiny ever see my dull, muted light? But he did. He saw me where I stood, held me in the moment and didn’t let me get away despite all my hesitation.

When you’re writing both sides of the dialogue though, you can make it sound beautiful. You can pretend the words come out perfect, that you can ride the line of fantasy and reality and come out okay on the other side. It’s the moment that line blurs that I caution you against. When they consume you without being present. A cloud of uncertain footing, a fog that creeps in while blissful ignorance turns its face to the sun.

And did I let this happen? Willingly. Unhesitatingly. I walked into the lion’s den led by my own hand. Because in the end I can’t blame him for his creation. I can’t hate him for what he meant to my heart for however long a time. Someday I won’t tear up when I hear The Eagles, and wish I was that girl in the flatbed Ford, slowing down to take a look at him.