the basic problem with us is that we invent realities in our minds. they seem real - we travel with them and enjoy them and envision a grand old time. then, its true form emerges and we feel both guilt and anger. guilt we ever believed the lies we told ourselves, and anger that none of what we imagined came true. all that maturity ever brings us is the distinction between the invention and the sorrow of loss. it's not often when the idea manifests itself into something palpable and alive - it's only in those moments that we both affirm that some of those dreams can become realities; and that all the suffering of the realities made false has a remedy.
hot_rod:
too true