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I’d start this with a, “Dear Journal,” or something of the sort, but that feels a bit too strange and 10-year-old-girl-esque for me. Things have gotten a bit strange in my life as of late, and that’s really saying something considering the fact that I’m not exactly normal myself. I’m chronicling my life for a few reasons, but the most important right now is to keep myself sane. Adam advised that I do this in order to keep myself tied to my own true reality. I should probably explain who Adam is, I should probably explain who I am for that matter. I guess a small introduction is in order then.
My name is Alex Bracker, or at least that’s what I’d like you to think. You probably want to know who I am, what I look like, the physical stuff. You’re probably even scanning through every sentence right now with a fine tooth comb hoping to find even the smallest hint of something as insignificant as my gender. You’re not going to find much of the physical here I’m afraid.
The world is a strange place, but it’s an even stranger one for me. The world becomes very strange when you’re not completely there. It’s even stranger when you have to explain to someone why you’re looking at them a certain way. You can’t exactly tell them the truth; You can’t tell them that there’s currently a snake slowly slithering through their eye socket, slowly making its way to the ceiling because the person is currently within a spectral tree that’s only visible to yourself. You can’t tell them that there’s currently a massive spider that’s hair shimmers like amethyst in the sun calmly perched atop their head. Nor can you tell them that there’s a hissing noise that occasionally fills the room, and it isn’t coming from the vents.
It’s been like this since as long as I could remember. Though, as a child I reacted to them much more differently. I would see things, notice strange things. I’d see a large flying man’s silhouette pass the moon on some nights, see what I remember as small colorful objects dancing at the threshold of the door only to disappear as I came near, or seeing grass being crushed by some invisible force upon it. I even saw monsters under the bed, except they were far from the big bad ol’ Boogieman. They were tiny colorful creatures, liked rearranging junk around, I would always lower my blanket under my bed at night worried they’d be cold. I, of course, told my parents of these events, but they simply brushed it off as my imagination. Eventually I just quit trying to get them to notice these strange phenomenons. I guess it made sense; I even had, I guess, what you would call imaginary friends. Imaginary in the sense that only I seemed to know they were there. As a kid I would scream and shout if they startled or excited me. My parents and teachers would just tell me that they’re not real, and that it was just my overactive imagination running a muck. By ten I learned that they couldn’t hurt me no matter how creepy or terrifying they were. Most of the time they just passed right through me like I’m not even there, or I guess, they’re not even there. Sometimes though I can touch them, and it feels completely real. I can’t feel a thing if I don’t want to though. That’s about when I quit telling people about them too. Other kids called me weird, teachers called me “special.” I’m in high school now, and though kids still think I’m weird I’ve pretty much been dubbed as a loner who’s gifted in surrealism. You know, like all the other famous (infamous) people in history.
I’ve had to hop schools a lot in my life thanks to this curse. A lot of bad has come from this, but at the same time a lot of good. I’ve once had a complete stranger materialize out of nowhere when I needed a friend; I’ve woken up with a polar bear in my bed (and through the wall) once on a cold night, though translucent I wanted the warmth, and I felt it; An even stranger one, is that I quite regularly see an all knowing lemur. A cute little unblinking ring-tailed critter that can seem to give me the answer to any test question I want, but will never give me a straight answer when I ask for its name. I call ‘em Chuck. I’ve passed quite a few tests and ranked pretty high in standardized testing thanks to this little guy. That’s probably why I still get accepted into schools despite the amount of times I’ve pulled a fire alarm due to something such as an imaginary dragon demolishing the place and not being able to explain why.
That’s probably enough of my own introductions for now, there’ll be plenty more later anyways. I did mention before that this is going to be me chronicling my own adventures, correct? Whoever’s reading this is essentially going to be reading my personal journal, because of that some things have been altered. Such as some names have been changed, some details left out, some details added (because who catalogs dialogue in their journal anyways?), and some asides may be added from the “characters” (Mostly coming from a certain “mentor” as he reviews these pages. What are you adding those quotations for?) Anyways, onto the pages that are as dysfunctionally written and unorganized as my mind.

Description
I’d start this with a, “Dear Journal,” or something of the sort, but that feels a bit too strange and 10-year-old-girl-esque for me. Things have gotten a bit strange in my life as of late, and that’s really saying something considering the fact that I’m not exactly normal myself. I’m chronicling my life for a few reasons, but the most important right now is to keep myself sane. Adam advised that I do this in order to keep myself tied to my own true reality. I should probably explain who Adam is, I should probably explain who I am for that matter. I guess a small introduction is in order then.
My name is Alex Bracker, or at least that’s what I’d like you to think. You probably want to know who I am, what I look like, the physical stuff. You’re probably even scanning through every sentence right now with a fine tooth comb hoping to find even the smallest hint of something as insignificant as my gender. You’re not going to find much of the physical here I’m afraid.
The world is a strange place, but it’s an even stranger one for me. The world becomes very strange when you’re not completely there. It’s even stranger when you have to explain to someone why you’re looking at them a certain way. You can’t exactly tell them the truth; You can’t tell them that there’s currently a snake slowly slithering through their eye socket, slowly making its way to the ceiling because the person is currently within a spectral tree that’s only visible to yourself. You can’t tell them that there’s currently a massive spider that’s hair shimmers like amethyst in the sun calmly perched atop their head. Nor can you tell them that there’s a hissing noise that occasionally fills the room, and it isn’t coming from the vents.
It’s been like this since as long as I could remember. Though, as a child I reacted to them much more differently. I would see things, notice strange things. I’d see a large flying man’s silhouette pass the moon on some nights, see what I remember as small colorful objects dancing at the threshold of the door only to disappear as I came near, or seeing grass being crushed by some invisible force upon it. I even saw monsters under the bed, except they were far from the big bad ol’ Boogieman. They were tiny colorful creatures, liked rearranging junk around, I would always lower my blanket under my bed at night worried they’d be cold. I, of course, told my parents of these events, but they simply brushed it off as my imagination. Eventually I just quit trying to get them to notice these strange phenomenons. I guess it made sense; I even had, I guess, what you would call imaginary friends. Imaginary in the sense that only I seemed to know they were there. As a kid I would scream and shout if they startled or excited me. My parents and teachers would just tell me that they’re not real, and that it was just my overactive imagination running a muck. By ten I learned that they couldn’t hurt me no matter how creepy or terrifying they were. Most of the time they just passed right through me like I’m not even there, or I guess, they’re not even there. Sometimes though I can touch them, and it feels completely real. I can’t feel a thing if I don’t want to though. That’s about when I quit telling people about them too. Other kids called me weird, teachers called me “special.” I’m in high school now, and though kids still think I’m weird I’ve pretty much been dubbed as a loner who’s gifted in surrealism. You know, like all the other famous (infamous) people in history.
I’ve had to hop schools a lot in my life thanks to this curse. A lot of bad has come from this, but at the same time a lot of good. I’ve once had a complete stranger materialize out of nowhere when I needed a friend; I’ve woken up with a polar bear in my bed (and through the wall) once on a cold night, though translucent I wanted the warmth, and I felt it; An even stranger one, is that I quite regularly see an all knowing lemur. A cute little unblinking ring-tailed critter that can seem to give me the answer to any test question I want, but will never give me a straight answer when I ask for its name. I call ‘em Chuck. I’ve passed quite a few tests and ranked pretty high in standardized testing thanks to this little guy. That’s probably why I still get accepted into schools despite the amount of times I’ve pulled a fire alarm due to something such as an imaginary dragon demolishing the place and not being able to explain why.
That’s probably enough of my own introductions for now, there’ll be plenty more later anyways. I did mention before that this is going to be me chronicling my own adventures, correct? Whoever’s reading this is essentially going to be reading my personal journal, because of that some things have been altered. Such as some names have been changed, some details left out, some details added (because who catalogs dialogue in their journal anyways?), and some asides may be added from the “characters” (Mostly coming from a certain “mentor” as he reviews these pages. What are you adding those quotations for?) Anyways, onto the pages that are as dysfunctionally written and unorganized as my mind.