Aoife stared at her nachos. She was alone in the kitchen, her mother was in her lounge, communing with the spirit world, and her father was in the garage, doing whatever it was he did in there. There was something about the way the cheese was sitting, pooling in the middle, wrinkling at the sides. It almost looked familiar, like… a face? Maybe she could sell it on e-bay…She peered closer. The cheese blinked. No, that couldn't be right, Aoife thought. It must have just wrinkled as it cooled. Cheese didn't blink. Even cheese that had a face. It blinked again. Aoife shook her head and sniffed the air. No, she couldn't smell anything that would suggest that her mother had been burning the grass scented incense. She looked back at the cheese, and then jumped back surprised. The cheese writhed and wriggled, stretching and flexing until, quite suddenly there before her was the face of… "Jesus?" "Aoife!" the voice was cheery, friendly and yet somehow reproachful.
"Have I gone mad?" Aoif asked.
"Oh Aoife, no," replied Jesus.
"Why should I believe you?" Aoife asked. "I mean, if I have gone mad, and you're a figment of my imagination, you're hardly going to be admitting I've lost the plot, that would suggest you're not there, which means that you can't be answering me, so I haven't gone mad. And yet you are there, which means I must have."
"But even if you don't believe me, don't you believe in me?"
"Perhaps," replied Aoife. "But that doesn't mean you exist."
"But for you to believe in me, there must be something for you to believe in, and therefore I must exist," Jesus insisted.
"Ok, so I won't believe in you." Aoife turned away from the nachos.
"But you've been talking to me, you can't just pretend that that hasn't happened. If I didn't exist, this conversation wouldn't have happened, but it did, so I do."
"So you're suggesting that all illusions are in fact, reality, and that because someone perceives something to have occurred, it must have?"
"What other solution could there be? The only way we have to determine what is real and what is false is our own experiences. We have no way of independently verifying anything which is told to us by another person, to ensure that they processed and received the information in the same way we did. We are limited by our own experiences, and by our ability to convey those experiences. Who are we to put a limit on the reality in which we live?"
Aoife shoved the nachos away in frustration. "Ok, fine, so you exist! Now what? What do you want with me?!"
"We need to talk with you, Aoife. There's something you need to know."
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