I think it’s crazy how Reality & Fantasy are superimposed on each other every second that I breathe. Like broken oil and water, finally mixing together, only not completely, and never not sloppily.
Essentially, all of Reality is Fantasy because, through my sole point of view, the only one I own, nothing ever is truly true or fully complete. A lot of what I actually perceive of Reality’s scope, if not all, is me guessing, me imagining, connecting the dots, trying to fill in the blanks, making sense of silences and desperately trying to see words, pictures in empty skies. None of it is ever truth, rather hollow ideas.
Reality is a fantasy. Life is unreal. I am surreal. Nothing makes sense, nothing is real. My eyes have fancy filters on, adding sense, colors, warmth and whatever else it deems necessary to this bland, vacant space in which I float. All of which are gone, from me; from the rest.
There is nothing.
I am nothing. And yet, I remain.