I'm afraid that I spent too much time in a world of written words and unreal stories,
that I forgot what it feels like in reality.
How do you manage to find the difference between dreams and memories,
when half of them connect to fantasy.
How does it feel to be happy with your hole heart,
I'm afraid I might have forgot.
The darkness creeps up and swallows the sun. And the moon goes for a run right across the sky, though I don't look outside.
Sometimes I feel like I get more worked up about fictional stuff than the cruel reality outside of the window of my sweet little bubble.
I have these weird moments when I notice that the sh*t in stories happens in the real world as well, though I never know how to react, because in stories I say what I think about it, then it's good, cause it's just a story.
But that is the problem, it's not. It's not just a story, it reflects the real world and I can't handle the truth, so I search for more stories,
write 'em myself and block out the truth that I'm reading about.