I try to make something different, I really do. But he’s still there. He always finds me.
It was a long time ago when he started existing on the page; my page, not his.
It was never his page.
I gave him life, and everybody loved him — more than they could love me. He was fictional, and sweet, and a bit wobbly. A stoned cat, a skinny child. And everybody loves a wobbly fictional character. He had all the praise and I was happy for him, really, I was proud. They still talk about him. All my other children of ink and dust, they will never be like him. He is the eldest, the sweetest, the craziest, the cruellest. He will always have all the attention. More than that, I gave him life. More life than his siblings.
He is Atman; he is the “soul”. And I, his creator — no soul left. All I had I gave to him. I picked that name because I wanted him to be special. And he is special. But he still haunts me. And he is still by my side, talking in his weird accent, smiling at me, pretending that he hasn’t ruined me. Maybe — he hasn’t.
He knows I’m afraid that I will never write a character like him. I’m afraid that my vocal cords outstretched irreparably while giving him life. I’m afraid I’ll never meet someone like him. Maybe — I won’t, and it’ll be better that way.
But then I think, there are so many orphan words in the world.
He can’t be all there is. I know he can’t be all that is left of me. He can’t.