I’m someone who believes imagination is sometimes more real than what we call reality, and that our thoughts and sentiments, even though have no exterior posture to designate them with, are as concretely present in this world as our physical bodies are.

This is a very old blog. Through years I’ve been writing about my life and mixing between fiction and reality, which at some point confused me and others. My writing style has veered into the realm of no-return because right now I can’t express myself in a realistic way anymore, and I often watch my sentences be led somewhere I don’t intend them to be; it’s always felt like imagination controls its bearer, and not the opposite.

I usually stop writing when life gets too real for me. Whenever trouble emerges and things are too stressing, that fictional side simply retreats, and I find myself stripped of the will to write or express myself, because of how bare I came to believe this life is, without the imaginary strokes one brushes their stories with from time to time.

Too real is not life-like, to me. With time, my distress unloads from unto that chest of mine, and life finds its way into my heart again, with all of its sentimental ingredients, and its surreal visits.

So without further elaboration, these posts are an attempt at coming to terms with one’s fictional side, but all the while without losing touch of one’s own reality, with its misery, or happiness.



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