I am an investigative journalist. Today I’m investigating a local medical anomaly and his distraught family.
He is a boy who thinks that he is god, and why not? All people get to this point in their final dementia – rubbing elbows with god in heaven – this kid just got to that point too soon.
But what can a boy’s body do when its master is an injured brain that is trying to will itself into oblivion?
The boy was lucid for long periods of time but would slip into a trance so quickly. And suddenly he would be back – haunted eyes were full of earnest belief that he wasn’t ill, he was being transported.
It was a tumor, actually. Aggressively over stimulating the imagination of a young child.
He thought he was god? No, but he travelled to other worlds and recounted them in such detail that you wished you could go there too. He could tell you of the time he had caught a quadruple somersault by just two fingertips in Monte Carlo. He was so convinced that the world was more than what it was – and you wanted to believe him.
“None of your dreams are real,” his family told him, hoping to cure him of these fantasies – and his face would fall. They loved him too much to delude him.
But nothing they said made his experiences any less real to him. This world view was based not in his experience but in something that existed inside him from the beginning: he was part of an unfortunate brotherhood obsessed with what the world could be. And like any sickness, it consumed him.