real,
is when you wake up each day feeling the gloom and mist and dark clouds surrounding you everywhere you go.
real,
is when you come home each day to an empty room and the phone never rings and the door never opens to anyone else but the grumpy cleaning lady.
real,
is when you lie in your bed every night wondering why the world hates you and in that loneliness of the night, cry yourself silently to sleep wishing you were somewhere else. anywhere else but here.
now correct me if i'm wrong, but
isn't when you wake up to fresh morning greetings on your way everywhere; where the varieties of flowers are in full bloom and you pass smiling faces that make your day.
real,
isn't when you come back home and sit looking out your window with that silly smile unconsciously plastered on your face; and the door is wide open, warm grins and laughter as they look in; and even the cleaning lady is cheery and nice.
(you even know her name, and she in turn, remembers yours)
and most of all,
real,
isn't when you snuggle up in comfy sheets, smiling yourself to sleep each night, looking forward and wondering what new and incredible thing would happen the next morning; and you marvel at how beautiful the world has suddenly become and you can't help but thank all the stars for there's no other place you would rather be than right here in this very present pleasantville of yours.
can unreal reality really be better than fantasies?
