He is convinced of his own greatness. He’s a narcissist – an admission made of his own volition but also something anyone who knows him can corroborate. As he sits completely naked in my bed, telling me about the way the world works. I find something comforting in it, even if I’m not entirely sure how much of it I believe.
I want to see the world the way he sees it, with him as the dark horse hero in a somewhat sinister plot line. I want him to save the world, too, even if by the end of the story he doesn’t save anything or anyone, not even himself. But I like the stories he tells me, because in those stories he can save the world. He does save the world.
There’s a part of me that has a voice that sounds like the nagging insecurities of the world around me, and that voice tells me that none of this could possibly be true. That voice tells me to snap back to reality, to read through the lies, to confront the situation with the usual stark and uninteresting reality that I already live in. But I don’t like that reality. I like the reality that he paints for me, which is brilliant and vivid and full of magic and fasscinating beasts. I want the reality that he lives in, and I want to live there with him. Because me in my reality is cold and lonely. I’d rather be in a hell that could never be real with him than anywhere else alone.