I once read "fiction is fact's older sister"
and I like to pretend that older sister is me
for my mind doesn't swim in the confines of the universal sea
it treads in the deepest waters of unwavering inconsistent change
and my soul flies far past the breaches of humanity
right to where fact and fiction merge
and far past it
and when I think
I do not use facts or logistics
to arrive at my conclusions
perhaps my own disillusionment is how I reach my solutions
but my disillusionment to others 
is pure fact to me
and in this realm
I imagine the finest things ever thought
of magic and mischief
and impish little things that keep my imagination alive
because it is the only thing I will forever possess
however uneasily controlled
I use it as my guide
 
why dwell in misanthropy  
when I can frolic with fairies
that know secrets 
that I can learn
and no one else.