I always felt the same way.
I imagined once, though those days are now gone. Things more grand than they really are. That’s the best way to put it. I imagine too much, there’s a curse in that. Before a book is read it possesses that grandeur, it’s the pinnacle of literary genius. Then you read it and it’s just a book. Even the good ones, even the greatest still have these little flaws that you thought only the average possess. And you thought you could open the curtain but all you revealed was the mundane reality. And I keep chasing that dream, that one day I will find that perfection but it never comes.
That’s how many of the children’s fantasy stories end. The hero travels to a mystical land of wonders but ends up coming home in the end and it’s supposed to be happy. I always thought it was sad. To be revealed…
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