The idea came like a whisper in the back of my mind.

Hello, it said warmly.

I had never felt anything like this tickle in my head before.

It was new: misty, jagged colors, and prodded me like fire before it burns out.

What are you? I asked.

What am I not? It whispered.

I am the scent in the autumn air when you notice the leaves.

I am the story you hear and re-imagine.

I am the silent child in the corner.

A dreary castle on a moor.

A crowded street in Paris. 

A newspaper clipping...

Joy, sadness. A wisp of a thought. 

A different time altogether.

You can be all those things? I asked.

Don’t you ever forget who you are?

The whisper laughed from the back of its throat.

It sneezed on my brain and sprayed purple on my consciousness. 

I am everything. Or nothing.

But I am always something.

Something can be nothing.

Puzzled, I tried to grab the whisper and hold it in my mind’s hand.

My fingers stretched and reached.

I grabbed a thread and tied it to my hand.

It hovered, and then vanished like smoke.

So what are you? I asked.

It came like a whisper and wrote itself on my mind in ink. 

I am what you make me.