  I saw a man talking to himself today. His hair was greasy and matted, and he seemed confused as to which direction he should walk. Or rather, which road he should cross, as he was standing on a street corner. I wondered just who it was he was talking to.
A former co-worker, an imaginary friend, or perhaps a long since deceased spouse. At first, I was mildy depressed at this sight, knowing full well that a few years down the road, I may be just like him. Mumbling to myself on some random street corner. Then a thought occured to me which caused the mild feeling of depression to become an overwhelming feeling of hoplessness.
I am that man. Teetering on the curb, I long for some direction in my life, wondering exactly which street it is that I want to cross. I talk, but does anyone really hear me? They talk back, but does the fact that someone will talk back to you make them real? If so, then who's to say what's real at all? And if not, then what does define real? As cliche as the questions are, I will ask them anyway. Does real mean something you can touch? smell? hear? taste? feel? sense? imagine? Perhaps love is just like Santa Claus, or God.
Something made up to control your behavior, something that is not really real, but is real to many because it's what they believe And if belief is all it takes to be real, then I suppose you are real... 
