I’ve never met one.
But what if I’m right about what I said about the puppet? What will that mean?
“I don’t think the puppet’s real,” I told her in the kitchen.
“What about that,” she asked, holding them up. “Maybe it’s just a dream.”
“I think it’s real,” I replied.
“And I think that’s a stupid thing to say,” she pointed out.
“I’m just like you,” I told her. “I think. I think and I make up words. What matters is that I believe what I am saying.”
“I think you’re right, Tom. That you are, in a way, very real, but in a way that nobody else understands.”
“You see?” I told her.
With all the words I could think of, I told her. With every word, she made a noise, a chuckle. She was making fun of me.
“I hate the word ‘real,’ ” she said. “I hate it so much. It’s so boring. You think I’m talking about you when I’m really talking about myself, only you won’t understand what it means when I say it. It makes me a realist and a pessimist.”
“That sounds really weird,” I mumbled.
“Oh, that and I think all philosophers say that all their beliefs are false—or, I think, mostly false—and then, when they’re right, they think they found something even more correct.”
“You think you are a philosopher,” I finished. “You think you’re right.”
Tom sighed. “The question is why you think you are,” he agreed. “I don’t know. How would you know?”
“Because it makes you feel better,” she shrugged.
“That doesn’t make it true.”
“I don’t think this is true,” she said. “You feel like I have this voice inside of me that tells me it’s true and I would never lie to you, you crazy person. And maybe it’s real. Or maybe it’s not. If all my friends are lying, I’m going down. I’d rather be a liar then a lie.”
“No!” I said in surprise. “You mean—oh, god—do you feel like you feel like I’m being lied to?”
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