Fiction may hurt, too

There is imagination in my pillow, let it be in ours. 

Those homeless expectations you mainly wake up to continue drawing do enrage reality, they make your present empty, if you give them a vast space to control your life they may waste not just time but also your ambitions. They somehow make your brain alive meanwhile damage some of the invisible tones crashing the heart. Those detestable feelings we never saw but couldn’t twig anything more than them. It’s like we can’t manage to survive normally without the same thing that reveals us buried and pushes us to avoid actuality. 

I’m writing for the great bridges that were never meant to be crossed, for the daydreams that were never alluding realities, for the many hopes that were never interested in booking a seat in dreamers future planes. For the artworks that existed in a better world than the real being made by a brain disorder known as fiction. How many times has fiction disappointed your days? How many situations have built a side of your personality from it? It is properly a life basis, a healthy benefit in a junk food plate. A great path to a fruitful future that we all conjoin to find while everyone’s step is required. Likewise, it may devastate those who can’t wait, those who never believed in patience till they turned into patients, those who don’t give themselves opportunities to thrive later on. 

But sometimes when bad events surround you, you start expecting reparations, waiting a fleeing or a fixing panel from time when time is running out and your head begins a journey fulfilled with lies; there you’ll figure out how realistically talented your fictional portraits are and how obnoxious will your destiny be. Yes, life will certainly give you sun strokes,  but remember it’s just a matter of time. You’ll realise at a point of this wheeling road how lucky you are to survive; when those strokes were too close to burn you,they couldn’t but teach you. 

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