Folding stories ( Are We There Yet?)
I dream and I think it is life.
You were there, I was there; there is nothing unreal about it.
I felt it, so why do I need to end my sentences with a rethoric question mark.
It is my story, I can leave it out if I choose to.
I wrote it when I first stumbled upon him.
A protagonist with the power to rip the reader from somewhere else,
and glue her to the pages of his adventures.
The story evolved behind my eyelids, it grew at the back of my head,
and though I mused, and though I enjoyed indulging in the plot,
I never thought that one day it might be indulging me.
Imagination is funny that way.
It seems real in the way that only the surreal can.
It fills your mind and leaves no space for the mundane.
Hijacking even the most banal details, inflating them to the point of absurdity.
You were breathing, you were smiling, you were there.
It seemed like a miracle.
And all I could think was are we there yet?
So that I could kiss you.
To finish the story.
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