Delusional reality

I have had a hard time dealing with reality, tending to always find solace in the comforting world of fiction. In enchanting tales of magic and in vivid stories of places unknown.

Growing up, there was no other book that satiated my hunger for adventure and exploration like "Secret Island" did. The story of four kids discovering a secluded island in a beautiful lake, protected from the real world, caught my imagination every time I read it.

In the later years, this was replaced by the mystic lores of the boy who lived. My favourite escape from the daily doldrums of doing homework and other petty issues of that time. Dark and dingy alleys, leaky cauldrons, murky quills and candlelit hallways made clean and shiny seem totally obsolete. 

Rowling's universe of chocolate frogs, moving pictures and every flavour beans became so profoundly convincing that it was inevitable for it to not pour some of its magic into my earthly endeavours. Little does my mother know, that I used to go on 'adventures' looking for secret pathways and clues to mysteries awaiting to be solved. Cycling through thickets on deserted roads of our tiny little town, me and my bestie would find shortcuts and look for creepy, old and abandoned houses. Clearly, we were convinced that there was much more to the mundane. That all you need, is a curious eye before the daliesque reveals.

But where do I draw the line, as I tiptoe my way through the edge of both the realms. What happens when the likes of conspiracy theories and make-belief stories erupt from the other side. Is it reasonable to expect reason from a generation raised on fairytales?

Potions & reasons,
XOXO

-T