The Mists of Imagination

I'm sitting on the edge of his bed again. He hasn't acknowledged me in a couple of days and I'm starting to become fuzzy around the edges. It's happened before, when he's been sick, but I've always been called before the mist has reclaimed me. But this time it is odd. Almost as if he is forcing himself to ignore me, trying to pretend I don't exist. I don't like it. I don't like the fact that the friends he has over don't bring friends with them anymore. We used to play our own games while they frolicked around with each other. We would tell stories of our humans. But slowly, they stopped coming around. I had always likened the fading to a sickness, something that happens to us occasionally, but we always get better from. It is only now that I realize as I merge closer into the ether, into the mists of imagination, that I realize that the fading is not a result of us getting sick. It is a matter of the loss of imagination by our humans, their lack of faith in believing in us. It is sad that we have to fade because of this, but someday maybe I will be pulled back out of the mists by another young child looking for a friend. I will always be a friend to those who imagine.