You

Let's get the obvious out of the way: I don't exist.

And really, the only reason why I even seem to exist is because you are creating me.

Like right now. You imagine that I have a voice. You're reading me as happy, angry, sad, aggressive, passive, suicidal, [insert emotion here]. I mean, this story is as much about you as it is about me anyway.

And the truth is that there is a person who is typing a bunch of words on a computer right now. Actually, it's not now anymore because these words were typed in the past. Then, in a subsequent now, the person who typed these words came back and edited them. But those words weren't any good either. They've been deleted, and changed, and rearranged. What's most important, though, is that now you are reading them.

And now--in your now--you are imagining that those words are me.

But I don't exist.

Except inside your head. Or at least, I will exist there if you let me inside you. If you keep reading.

If you do keep reading, then I will live inside your head with those other things that live there. Those things that you don't want anybody else to know about. Those things you are hiding from your friends, your spouse, your children, your boss. If you want, you can put me there too. I promise I won't tell anyone what I see there. Though if you let me in--I mean--if you really give me a spot inside your head, you might not be able to hold onto those secrets anymore. You might let go of them yourself.

Because even though I don't exist, you won't be able to keep me inside your head without being changed. That's really the main thing about me: I change you.

I'm sorry. I seem to have gotten ahead of myself. I haven't even introduced myself. But that's not really necessary, is it? After all, I'm not real. Still, I will be whatever you want me to be.

I'm either a boy or a girl, or neither. That's for you to decide. I'm not God, unless you want me to be. So many people need gods, but it is so easy to become one that I'm not sure it's worth the effort anymore.

You'll probably imagine that I have a body, and if you do it's probably nice. That's what people usually imagine. It's what they want to see.

However, some of you are looking for someone specific. Someone who died, perhaps, and you will probably imagine that I am that person. Others of you always hear the voice of your third-grade teacher at times like these, when the narrator is vague. A few of you clever readers have already pegged me as the foul-mouthed taxi driver who picked you up on 32nd and Main, or maybe the college professor who finally understood you. But I've worked behind bars too: dancing, pouring, and serving time.

I'm young, and old. I'm Lithuanian, if that's what you want. But I can be Cherokee (or Lakota) too. I am a child. A family pet.

I've been a preacher and a prostitute at the same time. I tickle you where you want.

I look like Kathy Bates and Nathan Fillion.

And most of all--this is important--no matter who you are: I am in love with you.

In fact, I think you are perfect. I would never criticize you because we see the world through the same lens, and I agree with everything that you believe. Even when I don't see things your way at first, it's just because I sometimes jump to conclusions. I'm sorry about that. You are right after all.

So I hope you will get to know me a little better. I hope you'll give me room to grow inside you.

Because until you put me inside your head, I won't be real.

But you are real, aren't you? You have skin and hair. You breathe. Your heart beats. You have felt love and loss. You know the salty taste of tears and blood.

It is because of you that I need to be here. For even though I am not here, I can help you to be here more than you are.

I'm here to remind you about death.

I'm here to remind you about soft lips and warm breath.

I'm here to remind you about the beaches where you first saw the ocean. The snow angels you made with the person you love. The roar of the winds in a summer thunderstorm. The blue mud at the bottom of a pond.

I can remind you of many things when you let me inside you.

I can bring to the surface a memory that you are trying to keep deep down.

If you want me to seduce you, I will. If you need me to protect you, I can. If you want me to judge you, just remember . . .

I'm not real.

But what you did was real. Everything you have done and everything you will do.

Memories, too, are as real as I am. They are you. I am you. And when you die, so do we.

Then none of us--you, me, your memories--will exist.

It is important that you remember this.