They told him he was delusional. They told him all the time. When he was smiling and laughing and dying within himself, a mere being on the outside, an entire universe on the inside, he was told he was delusional. And mad. And crazy. One day he replied to the claims. It was summer. It was night. He said:
"You are all correct. I am delusional. But what is delusion? What is and is not real? How can anyone truly tell? For me, delusion is as much of a part of my reality as the trees or the sun and the sound of cellos in the distance. How can you tell me that the visions of my veins pulsing blue or green or red are any less real than a child's laughter or the feeling of a soft cotton shirt when both are so deep and true to my mind's eye? This is my reality. This is what is and that is all."
He walked away slowly. He was silent for many moons to come.
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