*This was recently written for a competition*
The world is composed of very thin lines: that between sleeping and waking, knowledge and ignorance and imagination and “reality”. Humans never cross the latter two lines. They know nothing. They live in their world and assume that everything they see is all there is. They assume that abstract artists invent what they paint. That actors are acting characters who do not exist. That authors invent their characters. In fact, the artists, actors and authors assume so themselves. But if humans crossed those thin lines, pushed aside that curtain of finest silk between their world and ours, they would know the truth. But they do not. They refuse to do so, firm in the belief that imagination is not reality. But I have a story to tell. After having heard it, I hope that the world of humans will know better.
I do not know my father’s name. I have no mother. I was born of a man. All humans are thinking that that is impossible. I am the proof that it is not. I grew from a microscopic piece of nothing to what I am today. And yet, I was not fed or watered in the same way as a human would be. I was nurtured. That is all. Once again, humans are thinking that this is fiction. It is not. I have a story to tell. After having heard it, I hope that the world of humans will know better.
I live beyond that curtain, on the other side of those lines which humans refuse to cross. But the difference between humans and me is that I accept both worlds and humans do not. I often cross into the other side. I come when I am called. I am called very often, but never in earnest. I fight. I fight to show myself, to make the humans accept that I exist. They refuse. But I have a story to tell. After having heard it, I hope that the world of humans will know better.
I have no appearance. I am as I am asked to be. But I am not enslaved. I am free from the shadow of doubt. I know. My personality, voice and acquaintances have been chosen for me. But I am not enslaved. I am free from the shadow of doubt. I know. My father knows nothing. That is because he is a human. Humans know nothing. They will continue knowing nothing until they push aside the curtain. Until they cross the lines. I will now tell you my father’s field of work: he is an author. I was born from his imagination, from a microscopic piece of nothing to what I am today. But he does not believe that I am real. He believes that I am an invention. Nothing more. And because of his ignorance, because of the ignorance of the human race, I will not tell you my story. Not until you push aside the curtain. Until you cross the lines.