[ WP ] You have had an imaginary friend . One day you find that your friend is no longer invisible to everyone , but you are .

He sat clutched in the grip of mania, sprawling his heart across a pair of bongos and shaking the air with sophomoric passion. The inkslingers and oddballs happening to attend a combination of tattoo and anime conventions gaped with their eyes at something that could normally be ignored. Another dirty hippie, beard racing locks, trying to get across to sleeping people that love is all we got, got ta turn it up a notch, he'd say. Until then no one could see him but me. 
 
 In dreams. Then on days that felt more like dreams. Through girls and school and drugs and shitty jobs and trying to make something to be proud of, I had worn thin the joy and sincerity of youth; I was getting colder. Then he would pop into my imagination. Scenarios so somatic that their truths were practically notarized. Then I would see glimpses of him pouring his heart out alone and dying inside in any company. The beauty inside screaming to be let out and to be understood. 
 
 But he was trapped. 
 
 Then, there he was. Roaring like a lion for a clap on the back and a `` Good job, hippie.'' Trying to say anything to make himself real. To feel that someone else was real. His head, a torrent with questions for reality, and everyone in charge, and anyone he walked past, but mainly himself. A collector of questions whose dam of answers was inaccessible until the series of events set in motion by several catalysts converging on his involuntarily ignorant soul. 
 
 I snuck up on him. I was the only one with the tenacity to plainly pay attention, others scoffing and wondering where the hat was so they could throw IOUs into it or some other snarky substitute for 
 `` Get the fuck out of here, you crazy hippie!'' 
 
 I did n't commend, just kept trying to pretend. Like he was a figment. But slowly inside, it became harder to hide. This ride was made for two. He'd say. Or I might have said after a couple of days with him. A whirlwind of drugs music and good intentions, sleeping minutes a night, and trying to become something with his newfound visibility. New faces, crazy places, I ca n't recall how much I forgot about those times. We stayed on the move. Always to the next destination, always energetic, he was; even when I, like normal people, needed rest. Things got heated, but this crazy mother fucker just made you love him. I was sure he had pure love beaming out of his forehead, using it like a weapon, cutting down malicious intent with sheer confusion and disarray. 
 
 I wish I had n't asked him for the fucking shirt off of his back. Yes, I actually thought it would be funny to see if the Neochrist would practice what his bongos preached. It did n't even look good on me. 
 Then for days, I could not explain the confusion and anger and pity and self-loathing and soon emotions just became one big blur. 
 How could I look down on and take advantage of someone so much that I forgot to see how good of a person this poor guy thinks he is... no, REALLY is. Inside. 
 
 Oh, no. 
 The passion in his voice is increasing daily. 
 He's gaining color. 
 
 I'm feeling colder. 
 
 The more I took advantage, the more strength I lent. 
 
 The more his passion leaked, the more demons he could vent. 
 
 I became like him, trapped alone inside my head. 
 
 And he will tell the world what happened to us instead.
