I just realized something. If, out of pure curiousity, someone put a camera up in my room and watched my activities when I was alone, they'd most likely consider me insane. They'd witness me working quietly at my computer, then suddenly jump up, thrashing my arms and faking a scream of rage. They might see me talking to people who aren't really there, or playing two sides of a conversation, in different tones of voice no less! They'd see me struggling against an unseen enemy and running around in the small vacinity between my bed and my desk. They might even consider me harmful to myself and others, perhaps a schizophrenic.

It's not that I am insane (at least I don't think so). I operate perfectly well in normal society, and I never do anything that would lead someone in my presence to question my sanity. But, when I'm alone, the distinction between my thoughts and the real world blurs. I have an extremely overactive imagination. I can turn it on and off. When I'm alone, I turn it on, and all hell breaks loose. I think it's because of the way I grew up. I'm an only child, and a bit introverted, so I didn't have any friends outside of school. This led me to play make-believe games. These games composed the whole of my free-time until about the age of eight. I would spend hours dreaming up scenarios. I would take random objects and save them because they might make great props. And I would play these games in my head when I wasn't paying attention at school so I could be fully prepared for them when I got home. Sometimes, I'd even play them with others, and lead them through my thoughts, encouraging them to act along. That is probably the most fun I've ever had.

Then I grew older and could no longer play those games. I was already pressing my luck at eight. Though I used to be the leader of all imaginary games on the playground, the other kids grew tired of it. They moved on. But, I stayed there, playing those games alone. The kids started calling me a freak. I really didn't care, but soon the teachers took notice and met with my parents. They understood what was going on, but they told me not to play those games anymore.

I can't give them up. Even if I try not to, alone, it just happens. Some idea will pop into my head, a fragment of an old scenario I'd never gotten a chance to play through, and I just run with it. I still have random objects of no use to me that I use for props, but now I hide them. I still dream up scenarios for new games at school, but I don't tell anyone anymore. I keep it a secret, and pretend to be exactly like everyone else. Late at night though, I let down my barrier against my imagination. I live through all of the thoughts and ideas that I keep cooped up during the day. I still play the games exactly as I played them when I was five. It's still a lot of fun. But, by society's standards, I'm quite mad. I tell you I'm not. I've just retained what others have lost or dulled down and locked in their minds. If I was watched alone, I'd be considered insane.

I don't care

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