"Is It Really?"

As one of my clients, who is living with a severely damaged language portion of her brain, says: "It is! It really is!," I also exclaim the same notion. And that being of wonderment, bewilderment, surprise, and that extra something which cannot be named. Looking around here and peaking way over there, and, occasionally, staring through to way down into here, I cannot escape the fact that each and every one of us lives in an uniquely created world, a bubble crowded with whatever we choose to fill it with. This self-made world of vast importance is only important to us. We are the mother to it, hence, the protective nature of our creation. The formidable guard, the barbed-wire fence, and possibly a river around the perimeter keep the world secluded, possibly safe, and effectively separated from reality. I live in my house with my own rules and regulations. My neighbor has his own set. And my mother seems to live on a whole other planet altogether. As I see this, I begin to wonder: "Is it? Is it really?"

Is it really like that? Really. Real.ly. Where is the real in our worlds? I'd like to step outside of my world, and be able to see the real. It appears as if what I have created for myself is not that real, it is only that to me, because I created it, and not because of anything else. As I drop my view of the enormity and the importance of this cocoon, it ceases to exist. In that case, what remains? And why is it that while in one part of the country calling oneself an artist is the weirdest, most outrageous, and insane concept, while in another, it's perfectly fitting?

I think back to my brain-injured client, and the world she may be experiencing, and the limitations she's operating through, and the ease at which she can be used and manipulated, and I wonder, how many deficits am I operating through?