not quite solipsism

For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.

I always wondered why she trusted me.

I guess "always" isn't quite the word, because that would imply that I was always conscious or there, that there were no pauses in my thought or being. This is not true. It's hard to notice when you're not there, though. I'm reminded of a time I went in for oral surgery, and they put me under and I didn't realize it until later--when I was sitting in the dentist's chair, impatient because they hadn't started yet.

You don't know when you're not there, but eventually you piece together clues. There's the clocks, the way people change, the weather, the seasons, when the sun sets. I started keeping track, and sometimes there were days, weeks, months missing. And before I kept track I guess I just figured that time flies, but it's not that.

I don't exist. She's created me, and without her I wouldn't be able to have existential angst. It's no wonder she trusts me--she must know that she gives me agency, that when she's away I can't even tick off boxes in my little notebook. I just wait for her to return. If "wait" is even the right word.

I learned this some weeks ago, when it was still early autumn. Now it's late winter and each time I've resolved to confront her about it I've lost my nerve. What am I supposed to say? "I know I'm fake, stop pretending?" And if I do tell her, what happens to me? Do I get to keep existing, or will I just softly and suddenly vanish away?

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