She’s never that far from my mind. In a way, she’s in my breath and the way I hold a paintbrush.
She lounges in the back of my head, waiting for me to do something with her. She also doesn’t exist.
I can picture her doing almost anything and I know if it’s in character for her or not. Just because it’s not in character doesn’t mean she won’t do it; in the same way that we all are faceted, she is faceted. I know every inflection of her voice and every small gesture. I know how she holds her silverware and drinks her coffee. I know how her hips move when she walks; I know how her hair flows when she runs. I know her unconscious mind. I know how she smiles, how she laughs, how she frowns. But I don’t know what her face looks like. I don’t know what color her hair is.
She’s still an influence on me, even today. But not as much as she used to be. She and I are almost the same person and have been for a long time now. But she is the part of me that I left behind a long time ago. She’s still waiting for me to return to her and give her life again. It’s become increasingly harder for me to do that; I’m not the same person anymore. If she knew, she would understand.
She's violent where I am pacifistic. She's morose where I am content. I miss her and it's a terrible aching loneliness. But I can't keep her for too long.
When I give her life, it’s very good. She becomes real under my fingertips and in front of my eyes. I feel alive again too. My eyebrows furrow and I look angry, but the writhing of my inner self in brought into focus and pushed out of me. It’s an intense and incredible sensation. My hands are her hands and my eyes are her eyes. All of her strength and confidence, all of her frustration and weakness, become mine. I live vicariously through her, because she is me—but everything about her is more intense than I could ever be.
Her name is Savannah and she does not exist. Her life is in pages in my notebooks and in words that I type. But this does not make her any less real.