A realist.
That's what I am.
I believed in fairytales once. I believed in knights in shining armor, frog princes, and fairy godmothers. I believed in magic wands, flying reptiles, and winged humans.
Until one day I realized that to dream is just that. Dream.
I realized that what you dream is what you think is possible. Not what actually is possible.
I realized that I had no knight in shining armor. That once kissed, my frog prince would still be a frog. And that my tears wouldn't bring a fairy godmother to turn my pumpkin into a carriage.
I came to the conclusion that magic wands were just sticks. Flying lizards where just ugly birds. And winged humans were just plastic.
I came to understand that humans where never tragically beautiful, or openly understanding. That stories where just told to hide insecurities and imagine possible strength.
I never dream. I am a realist.
I know that the moon is made of sand not cheese. I know that talking animals are fiction not fact. And I know that the world and its people are brutally savage not kind at heart.
Humans are ugly, vile, pathetic and desolate creatures.
Who know not right from wrong.
And believe in things that are unimaginable.
And give reason for fact with fiction.
Dreams are for those who misunderstand reality. For those who believe that they can change who they are into something fantastic. For those who forget that tomorrow is not a new beginning but a continuation of the end.
Why don't I ever dream?
Because in the over complicated minds of people, they missed what had been intended all along.
Because imagination leads to dreaming the impossible, possible.
Because now we have no way to stop what we started.
Because now the impossible is possible and nothing is safe anymore.
Because everybody who ever believed in fantasy became disappointed.
Because reality could never stand up to them.
Though, does writing this defeat the purpose of my conception? Do dreams hold the very essence of man? Maybe the truth about reality lies in the foggy depths of fiction. Maybe all the greats—Steinbeck, Hurston, Conrad, Shakespeare—knew this and now it is our turn to realize this as well.
I'm still alive, aren't I? Maybe there is still time for my fairy godmother or knight in shining armor.
And maybe, just maybe, being a realist means knowing that reality was once fiction.
A/N: okay so i've made a few changes and the actual story ends at.
"Because reality could never stand up to them." and the rest is new. (thanks to my only reviewer) so read and tell me if you like it. although i don't plan on changing anything other than spelling an/or grammar mistakes, your advice is appreciated.