I am living someone else’s life. This is not me. I am a madman huddled in an out of the way corner somewhere, imagining all this. I don’t know whose persona I borrowed, but this assumed identity is too capable, is too sure of himself, is too good. Surely I am not able to do these things I do — it is a sweet dream, and perhaps one day I will awake to the real whatever I am. But until that day, I will play the game like I know what I’m doing, live this life as if it were my very own. I should not question this simulacrum, though I know I sometimes will: I will wonder if, I will wonder how, and I will wonder why. When the real owner of this soul comes back to claim it, I will not contend with him; I will just smile as I give it back, and thank him for such a lovely day out in the sun.
