People call you real as if you are a physical living organism, as if you are visible to the human eye, as if you are in reach and I can grasp you with my hand
To me you are a ghost
Transparent, the living being oblivious to your being, and untouchable
To me you are just a myth
Something that I want to be real
To me you are oxygen
You are everywhere, but you are also clear to the eye. I breathe you in everyday that I’m alive, my lungs are filled with you, I exhale my feelings for you, and the cycle repeats until I no longer take any more breathes
But the thing is, if you weren’t real I wouldn’t be here. Although sometimes I wish you weren’t real, I wish you weren’t here, in my mind, and on this Earth somewhere in the crowd called society. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t real either, however, I already feel my soul leaving its vessel.