Fantasy, in its many lovely guises, is escape.
It is truths adorned in impossibilities, so that those who deny such truths can admire them even without understanding.
And it is I, one of its rebellious spectators, that gazes in childish awe, that humbly weeps, and quietly seethes at the wonderful rawness of infinite realms within realms.
I walk, in quick and ecstatic stride, through painted worlds and penned worlds and pixilated worlds,
Living dream after fantastic dream.
And as each story ends and its epilogue loses its luster, I grope across the uninteresting marble of reality for my next fix.
Then the bell rings.
The awe and wonder give way to secret scars and discrimination.
And I am, in cruel and painful monotone,
Awake.
