Don't worry, it doesn't make any sense to me either.

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He hated reality. He was always the type for imagining his own playground. Building his own world in his mind, building and perfecting and then destroying it all at once.

He built people once, but they became sick and diseased.

He built a sun once, but it burnt out.

He built the stars once, but they fell out of the sky.

He built himself once, and made it as perfect as could be.

Reality numbed him. Turned his flesh to stone and his blood solid and stiff.

In his mind, everything was safer. Everything was right or wrong, and he had supreme power. When he made his own world, things were always okay.

Soon after the accident, people began questioning his so-called sanity.

“Sometimes he didn’t seem right,” they’d say.

“Sometimes he didn’t seem there,” they’d say.

His father cringed until his forehead was a picture of stationary ocean waves. Until the skin of his eyes bunched up to make little creases.

His father knew better.

Standing on the gentle hill of the cemetery, six feet above his only son, he knew better. The cliché rain and cliché gray skies were only slight, only gentle, so one could pretend that the sun was shining and birds were singing.

His father smiled at the gravestone. He did not pretend the tears prickling his eyes were just raindrops. He did not pretend the ache in his heart was from the meal he ate the night before.

And if one were to try hard enough, as his father took his time walking down the hill, past gravestones and forgotten names, one could pretend the sun were burning in the sky. And if one tried hard enough, one could pretend the stars were up there, too. If one tried hard enough, one could pretend the people past the cemetery gates weren’t all dying from the same disease.

If one tried hard enough, when turning slowly back to his grave, one could see him standing and staring up at the sun and stars, and know, silently, that he was more right and more there than all of us.