You built my bones

It’s strange, that I’m alive as you read. Of course, I am alive in some other, ‘real’ world, myself, but here I am alive in you. With every word you read or moment you dedicate to a thought inhabited by me, I animate, my muscles twist, contract and thicken, my blood shifts, begins to pulse. But there isn’t really an I. Because the I you think of really is just you, and what you make of me is entirely what ‘I’ am. And what are you, beyond all the countless other I’s that have touched your life, not even just humans, but the unarticulated I’s of the trees and rocks and stars of your childhood? When you look at someone, anyone, anything, when you make me alive, really you are looking at an extension of you.