Fine Line

To me
There's a fine line between fantasy and reality. My version of 'fantasy' can be split into two worlds: the part of reality that I just can't get around to believing, somehow it always shocks me and, the full definition of fantasy; imagination at its wildest, dreams of what I wish would be real, my true desires and the calming comfort I save for times when life becomes the bitchiest bitch of all. The fantasy-reality is chaotic because of its sick pleasantness and false-hope it gives which comes after the bait is bitten. In this 'world' everything makes me happy, but it's only temporary and then it fades away as if after knowing I can have something--after experiencing it--it no longer has as much value. When it comes and starts to pass, I think of my hypocrisy. Selfish, it's so silly, all the times I said I wasn't naive and that everyone else was...but sometimes it isn't always about being naive; it's hope. Fiction is just a charade and I hate its beautiful refuge.