Sometimes I feel like a figment of my own imagination.

“Sometimes I feel like a figment of my own imagination.” Thus spoke Lily Tomlin, a woman whose humor hides a philosopher’s soul. In this brief confession, she captures one of the most haunting truths of existence — that within the theater of consciousness, the line between self and imagination is not always clear. To feel like a figment of one’s own mind is to stand in that mysterious space where reality trembles, where the self questions its own solidity. Tomlin’s words are not merely whimsical; they are profound. For she speaks to the ancient struggle of humankind — to know whether what we call “I” is something real, or merely a story told by the mind to itself.

The origin of this reflection lies in the nature of self-awareness. The ancients, too, pondered this shadowed mystery. The philosopher Plato, in his allegory of the cave, warned that what men see may be but shadows of truth flickering on a wall. The self, likewise, may be but a reflection — an image created by our imagination, shaped by memory and desire. Yet this realization is not despairing; it is liberating. For if we are indeed creations of imagination, then we are not fixed — we are fluid, capable of becoming more than we are. To feel unreal is to glimpse the vastness of our inner world, where creation never ceases.

Consider the story of Virginia Woolf, that visionary of the modern spirit. She often felt herself dissolving into her own thoughts, saying, “I am rooted, but I flow.” Like Tomlin, she knew that identity is a shifting thing — that what we call “self” is part invention, part remembrance, part dream. And yet, from that fragile uncertainty, she built art that endures across time. Her imagination was her mirror and her sanctuary. It allowed her to make peace with the notion that perhaps we are all figments — not of delusion, but of creation, endlessly writing and rewriting ourselves.

There is, too, a sacred power in Tomlin’s irony. To feel like a figment of one’s own imagination is to realize how deeply the mind can shape reality. What you imagine yourself to be — weak or strong, lost or luminous — becomes the world you live within. The ancients knew this well. The Stoics taught that perception is everything, that it is not the world but our thoughts about the world that shape our experience. Thus, if we are figments, let us at least be conscious authors of the story. Let our imagination not confine us, but create us anew with every dawn.

Yet Tomlin’s words also carry sorrow — for in a world that demands constant definition, the fluidity of the self can feel like loneliness. The modern soul, surrounded by noise and expectation, often loses its center. We live in roles, in performances, in masks. And when the mask slips, we wonder if there was ever truly a face beneath it. This is the crisis of identity — the aching suspicion that we are playing ourselves in a play without end. But even here, wisdom gleams: if life is theater, then awareness of the stage is the beginning of truth. To know you are imagining is the first step toward freedom.

So, what lesson can we draw, traveler of thought? It is this: do not fear the fluidity of your being. Do not despair if you sometimes feel unreal. Instead, embrace your imagination as the forge of your soul. The self is not a statue to be preserved; it is a flame to be tended, reshaped, rekindled. Let imagination not blur you into nothingness, but sculpt you into meaning. For though we may be figments, we are figments who can love, who can create, who can dream — and that is no small miracle.

Therefore, walk with grace in your uncertainty. When you feel like a figment, smile — for you have remembered what most forget: that life itself is a creation of mind, a shared dream shaped by thought, by memory, by longing. And if that dream sometimes trembles, remember this: to imagine yourself is to be alive, and to know you are imagining is to awaken. In that awakening, the figment becomes the artist, and the dreamer, at last, becomes real.