This is Reality.

A gift. It always starts out with a gift. A small one, mostly. A colourful box, printed stripes of green, blue white and pink lines its body. Neatly, a ribbon of glittery gold is tied into a fluffy bow, its legs dangling by the side of the box. Pull it open, see what's inside. No. I should just leave it, and give it back. After all, wouldn't loosening the seal be a sign of acceptance? I can't possibly have that.

Fantasy and reality must be separated. To stay sane, I shall let my rational mind make the decisions for me. Reality is a boring place. The truth is an ugly thing, revolting at times. Fantasy however, it shall always be sweet. Sweet sweet reverie. Even if it involves the forbidden practices of everyday life, actions absolutely perverse... It shall never be wrong, for it is only fantasy.

A world without boundaries, a universe without truths, where you make your own conditions, and bend the elements to do your bidding. Events, people, places. Love, infidelity, reflections.

I could be whatever I want. Do whatever I please. Come up with excuses, make people forgive me. It's entirely up to me.

Spoiling myself to the core. Blackening my body, my heart and my soul thoroughly, until every vein, every drop of blood that runs through them are blacker than the night, viler than poison, soot and smoke.

This is reality. Where I abstain myself from certain things, to make sure I am a presentable human being that can walk among the other self-restraining psychos and be a part of this superficial society.

It is tiring. It is getting old. I am sick of it.

When a person fully lets go. Is it happiness? Or utter sadness? Do people laugh when they are happy, or when they have lost their minds?

Just this once maybe, I would make a mistake. Deliberately make this mistake, because I want to be wrong, to feel guilty and the rush of adrenalin that comes with it. The pleasure of guilt. There certainly is pleasure in feeling so.

I don't mind.

At this point, I hardly mind anything.

Hah. What am I saying? This is reality. And in reality, there is no gift, not even a small one in a colourful striped box, with a fluffy gold tinged ribbon holding it together.

The truth of the matter is, I am going to bed. There is no story to be told.