Fantasy

Is it but a elusive dream or a twist of playful fate that I grow to see her in the eye of my mind, so closely and vividly that I can hide from the tangible face and still seek solace in my little room of bed and window? Fantasy, so they say, belongs to the realm of dreams, buried deep under heavy thoughts and feelings of bulk, which escapes only in great darkness, like a thief or a ghost, or the dragons of myths waiting to be slayed, through little holes which fill up at a mere suggestion of a faint staggering light. Why should I submerge in such frivolously delicate waters and let my skin fold itself many times over? Why do I bask in the invisible and refuse the heat? I only hope for time which pushes the birth and kills the dying.