I’m absolutely notorious for falling for fiction. I’m not entirely too sure why I continue to create these fables with real people, actions, and even emotions. There have been many times when I’ve become the author of this fantasy world. It’s picture perfect and nothing like an abstract adventure. Every character, every moment is virtue. My own practical magic. Every bit of it, just existing. Just real. The gust of wind that makes the hairs on your arms jump, the blame of your anxiety on the butterflies that reside in your tummy, the stream of tears that glide down the skin of your face from a great joke or a reckless heartbreak — it’s all real. It must be, right? Reassure me that what I’ve perceived to be and what I’ve made to feel is real. It’s like I wait for the answer but suddenly my vision falls like sand through open fingers. The very moment I bite into this thing that has been a feast to my eyes, I collide with the revelation of my illusion. What once could pacify lost all its virtue. All the satisfaction in belief is gone. My hopes in the extraordinary makes me question my standards of the actual ordinary. Am I a fool for commending myself for having such a high regard? When will I understand there’s no value in this intangible world? For a moment I find myself wanting to let go but I’ve fallen too fast into the tempting arms of fiction. I’ve been holding onto this fairy tale for so long that I can feel the touch of the pages on my fingers. I’d rather not let go. Instead I carefully place a bookmark where I left off, allowing fiction to coax me as always, and use my imagination to make sure the story never ends.