Upon introspection I came to recognised now that true & real love just does not exist (or perhaps it does however I just haven’t come across it yet). Somewhat I concluded it as Merely a fairytale, a myth, because if it was real / true no one not even a joyous soul that I once was would be as non-believer I turn to become. I am stateless, a woman without a postcode, a country of origin, even a bed of belonging & for what? A pursuit of true & real love that turns out to be just a figment of everyone’s ideal fantasy? Imagination? Then I realised, as a writer, an artist of my own infinite kind, I guess I had to be damn creative to persuade humanity that it exists, when I myself never have seen the face of it yet, ah yet, I had a faith of seeing it manifested in my reality to even confirm my own beliefs of it. But alas, sorry to disappoint you world, mother earth that filled with illusions, but it doesn’t exist & if you think it is, then lucky you, knowing that’s the gifts the gods & goddesses of another realm. Either way, perhaps, it’s to say if you believe enough to get it, that may it be true once upon time ago, yet for me now, I just live in a era of reality where that , it’s as fictional as my writings, as ancient as the old wives’ tale, an allegory to the hopeful romantic, a fabricated folklore of the wishful thinkers & just another invention of çœck & bull story

© D C de Oliveira || April 4 2019 || Thursday 11.02pm
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