The world reminds me that I am human. Hiding in the shades of trees, roaming in the depths of my imagination. Forgetting... forgetting all traces of reality. It comes easily to me; very much like breathing. Sometimes I forget. People pull me out from behind the branches of trees and I am once again reminded of my life. The truth and reality.

But most times I sit up in the old sycamore tree and whisper to the stars. Wishing, wishing, wishing. I dream of a utopia where there is truth and hope and wonder. And then once again - I am brought down to the reality that I am not yet ready to face. It is not a place where I would like to be.

What is reality? It is a perception. What is life? Life is not a story. It is not a tale that a dreamer spins or a song that the motley folks sing of. Life is life. It is not a story, no matter how much you want it to be. Destiny. It is not set in stone. Life is what you make out of it. And every second you make a choice, a web is spun and soon it will intertwine with millions of stars out in the sky...