I can’t tell the difference between the months anymore. Time doesn’t stand still but it doesn’t seem to move either. It’s like the ocean, always in motion but never really moves. My body gets pulled apart by the current, the sand scrapes me skin raw and, yet, I still find the strength to surface.
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Scientifically, I don’t have control of anything. To science, I am just a bunch of atoms; but, if so, how do I explain dreams? Is it a fantasy world or is it our soul when it is let free to create?
Many people have asked me why I rather live in my “fantasy” world, but Isn’t it obvious? I don’t want to just exist. I need a voice, and in my “fantasy” world, I am sure to be heard.
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But what is a voice? Is it an intricate series of sound waves? Is it loud? Or is it quiet? These are questions I will never be able to answer, all I know is that my writing is the world my soul creates.
