Insane

Judged

People have always called me a dreamer. Not one of the worthy kinds, but a more obsessively type. They tell me I've built my own reality around the real one. That everything I believe in is fake. I don't suppose that they're right. Because I know that some are trying to mislead me when they say that the iris's field doesn't exist. That can't be, I've spent months in that place. But when I take them, all they tell me is that it's "just a barren meadow". I don't get why they're playing me like that. The only thing I see is an ocean of flowers. Most people say it's my imagination. Can one's imagination really be that strong? Am I hallucinating? No, they just bully me for being able to read, unlike most of society. Only rich people are taught how to work with letters. Obviously, I'm not rich. I'm a girl. Girls aren't rich.

Perhaps they are jealous of my abilities. I'm capable of experiencing new stories and mostly create some of my own! When I do, they're closer to me. Like romanticised, daily activities. Once I even wrote down my most adventurous experience. It started just like other days: I awaken from my sleep, open one of my most precious books and begin my adventures. Then eventually my mothers words snap me out of it. She wants me to get up before sunrise, to be on time with my tasks. Unlike others, I love my early doings. Every morning I walk around the market, searching for our next meal. Greeting people on my way. Those are mostly the same ones. But this time was different. As I came up to a new stall, my eye fell on someone my age. There was a new boy in town!