My Subject/Musings on Reality - Haven

   First comes the list of subjects, of course, there really isn't a better way to introduce this post.

   Fears: Failure, Loosing friends.
   Annoyances: Misuse of words or punctuation.
   Accomplishments: Staying friends with someone for so long, being the             "good kid."
   Confusions: Math miscalculations, a particularly personal situation as of now.
   Sorrows: Confronting failure, potential for being alone, reality.
   Dreams: To be a graphic novelist, for fantasies and magic to be real.
   Idiosyncrasies: Separating food, online roleplay, drawing.
   Risks: Some crimes (accidental theft/breaking and entering)
   Beloved Possessions: Drawings, misc. gifts from misc. people.
   Problems: Confrontation, procrastination.

   . . . sigh. I hope you like being depressed. Ahem -

   Peculiar thing, this reality thing. To me it is anyway. To most people one thing is just a thing and that’s all it can and ever will be. That beam of light breaking from the clouds is nothing but a light that broke through some dark enough sky that our eyes can reflect it back and give the mind an image of a beam of life.

  Yet, even though I had typed the most realistic description I could concerning that light, my mind still races into fanatical tales. The sky is cracking; an angel is descending; there’s a miracle happening beneath that light; something, something more than meets the eye is going on in that sun glow. These thoughts evolve into a fantasy for me that leaves me staring at the natural light, though others will say it’s just light.

  I don’t like that definition. I don’t like being told “it’s just light.” So I've learned to stay quiet while others educate me on the law of the physical world. It’s okay, I have stories that must be true somewhere.

  But, deep inside, I know they’re not.

  That really hurts me to admit that, but it’s the truth. Reality isn't going away for me. It won’t matter how many words I type, how many characters I develop, how many hours I waste or how many stories I create, all those do hide the truth of everything. Reality exists. Fantasy doesn't.

  As terrible as this is to say, I prefer my shelter of fantasy and ignorance. I still do. Fantasy makes me feel good, like I have a purpose in this dull life where nothing supernatural happens to me. I want to stay here in this little bubble I spent so much of my life calling home.

  Reality pops it, every time.

  That’s why it hurts so much.