A Girl's Diary

The Book

I fill it with the life of an imaginary friend of mine who lives only for a few hours every day. Sometimes less, and sometimes more, but she never ever leaves the pages of that book because she loves the book. That girl is boring, though. She's all alone with her things and achievements. She has friends but there's no proof except that she feels as if everyone loves her. 

As if that was ever the case. 

She's not a friend, really. Sometimes she talks down to me. Thinks she's better than me. Thinks she's better than me just because of all of the cool things she has or does. Honestly, I believe her. I would like to lie and say that I don't but she has all of the power because I said that she could. 

I handed it over just like I gave her that perfect report card. That high school relationship. Die hard best friend, army of loyal subjects. Even bigger army of desperately jealous admirers. I lost the power when I thought to give those things to her, or told her to go places and experience other worldly loves and adventures. I told her to pick up the world's best book, and live it, too. 

She does it so effortlessly. It's like she's the soccer mom and PTO president. She does everything right without breaking a sweat. I want to be her. 

Ever since I  picked up that book, I've had these symptoms; head and body aches. Even my stomach hurts sometimes. My eyes get so dry. When I wake up in the morning, I have crust on the corners. 

I can still remember a time, long ago when my body wasn't slowed by these symptoms and tasks came easy to my hands and feet. My mind even welcomed them. But ever since I began reading that God awful book, it's like my head isn't mine anymore. 

It's that girl's, she's controlling me now. Every time I pick up that book she gets more and more control, like her grip tightens on the joy stick in my skull. 

Recently, its\'s not me who tells her what to do, it's her telling me. And after a while, my ears hurt and my feelings do too. I don't always do what she says, but every atom of my being cries at me to. 

It's what happens when you're along. That girl's voice gets louder. When I'm not alone, I can't even hear her. Her voice gets drowned out. I don't read the book at all when I have someone there with me. 

Ah. To not be alone.

The beginning and end of all existence. You see, it is someone else who gave me that book. Not my imaginary friend, but a real one. 

She pounded the fibers, sewed the pages together and bound the spine. She prepared the leather so it would last through time and weather. She created the girl on the pages, birthed her herself. 

See, I think my imaginary friend and her's are twins of a sort. I think my real friend's imaginary friend spawned mine. 

It is because of her that my imaginary friend drives the car she drives, styles her hair the way she does, wears those clothes, talks about what she does. So, in the end, my friend and I are inevitably controlled by the original imaginary friend wherever he or she may be. 

As it stands now, I wish to burn that book  myself so that I may no longer have friends of the imagination. If I could, my binoculars could lose a sense or two. I might even be able to take them off my face and brave the binocular sunburn that no doubtedly is printed on my face from being in the hot sun. If my imaginary friend didn't talk so loud, maybe I'd get used to the sound of my own voice again. I can't remember exactly what it sounds like. Should I use it to ask someone else to help me?