I am.

I am Arkham. I live my life in mid slumber. Delusional to a fault. The waking reality only exists to fuel the dreamstate. That is where I'd rather be. Seated within my own skull, witnessing the world through the grey orbital sockets of an automaton. What does this mean?

I am a gamer, a writer, an artist. The reality in my mind is vastly different than the one born of the alarm clock. I rise from my bed and leave for work like clockwork. I haven't witnessed the sun for more than a few hours a day in years. Routine drives the body. My limbs go through the motions but my mind strays. My footsteps show where I've been, but the drying ink on crumpled notepads show where I am going. The reality I share with those around me equates to a bad dream, whereas the one that dribbles out from the pen tips radiates with the warmth of the sun. There is potential in this insanity. This fever dream. Where is the real when caught between the dream?

One day I will wake to find reality has switched. The unpleasant nightmare of necessity gives way to a life of living. A life of creating dreams for others to reside and eventually wake within. A stranger's finger traces the path on the page. A chromatose state from which they do not wish to wake. The circle is completed.

I am Arkham.