“Don’t wish that it was just a dream.”
But the things that had happened were so fantastical, she didn’t know if she could actually believe they were anything but a dream. How could it be real? She had experienced what it was like to run on four legs like a horse, to know the world around her as a wolf did. How could that be real?
“If you wish it to be a dream…that’s all it will be.”
She wanted it to be real.
This can’t be happening. The donkeys at the left table are having their skin seared off with burning coils and the noise is unbearable. Really though, the girls are just singing a butchered rendition of what I think she said was a jazz tune. I don’t really know but my ears are bleeding. Kill me.
What is real?
I’m not sure
is the sky real? In all its glory and mystery, its blue glow drawing me to its familiarity, its warmth
days as beautiful as this make me question what truly is real and what is a dream
what is a nightmare
what is a vision
what is right and what is wrong
what is up
where is down
when did this get here
who am I
why is this sky blue?
does anyone really know?
what is real? reality is just an illusion, right? but what i’m feeling right now has to be real because it’s not learned, it’s not a result of this experience right now, it’s REAL because it’s ME. it’s MINE. sl the only thing that is real in this life is what we cannot control. what we shouldn’t control.
It seemed real, but then again, what does that mean? Your arms were there, scraping against mine. You lips were chapped, rubbing against mine. Your eyes were blank. Your shirt was off. Your chest was bare.
It was so hard for me not to be something “real,” like an accountant or computer programmer, but the way that I am, I just couldn’t sit at a desk for 5 hours without losing my mind.
“I am real.” I squeal, as my vision turns to white. The boy standing above me, what was his name? Mark? Matt? I don’t remember. He stares through me sadly, choosing to observe the gnarled chair behind me than my salty eyes. My eyes become unfocused. The boy’s silhouette is burnt into my retinas by the blinding light behind him. I think his mouth is moving, but I can’t hear him.
I hear a bell though. It rings loud and clear. My ears can’t pinpoint the sound. My eyes fail completely. The ringing surrounds me. The ringing comes from me.
So it was all real. From the beginning where I got stabbed and till now. I was in a comma. For two months I have been this way. It does not feel or seem real, not at all.
They said, “welcome to the desert of the real”, as ifＩhad just arrived and I hadn’t always known that this is the way things were. The way real seems to question its very existence as soon as it tumbles out of my mouth, the way that it seems like I’ve stumbled upon a very secret upon a secret cliff the second we question ourselves.
Is this real?
Are you real?
What is real? What is it? What if it’s not? What if it isn’t?
People swear to things they believe are real. “I swear to anything that’s real,” is not a realistic statement because people have different ideas of reality. I don’t believe in God but someone else does and if I swear to God they will be offended, and if I swear to anything that’s real they will be offended because I don’t think God is real. Anyway, reality’s cool.
I believe most of things which we see in dreams are not real. They are just some abberant thoughts of our mind. We need to be real when it comes to understanding the problems.
The acting was superb. I said my improvised lines truthfully, and so did he. It was filled with emotion, gleaming eyes, tears, pain. The audience cheered on us. And one day, the scene became real. It happened. Just… just as if it had been a prediction. That day, theater became my life.
the real me is someone difficult to describe. i’m not even sure it exists. the me that is genuine is as fluid as water, and as changeable as the colors on a chameleon’s back. “real” must be relative. at least that’s what I’ll tell myself.
She had always figured she’d know it when she saw it – that spark of real affection, the genuine chemistry that always accompanied true love in her mind. Lace was a big believer in love at first sight. Raised on a steady diet of romcoms and fairy tales, could anyone blame her?
Not that she had any real life representation of what true love was. Her mother was a lonely woman, who had gone through a string of men throughout the course of Lace’s life. And her father was a bit of a manwhore, her parents ultimately divorcing after one of his affairs was uncovered.
I woke up and as I rolled over to see his sleeping face I remembered I was angry. No…furious. I smacked him with a pillow and he shot up in bed. He was confused and groggy as I yelled at him for being able to sleep so soundly knowing that I was mad at him. He had no idea what I was talking about. It was then that I realized the reason for my anger wasn’t real, I had just dreamt it.
Forget about it. Like it is ever going to actually happen. It is impossible to achieve. But I supposed it is also subjective to each person and what they believe. That is the trouble with perception, there is nothing that is actually factual and real. It is all subjected to our biases and our pasts and our demons and what we have all left.
reality. is it a phase? is it actually something tangible? you don’t know. we don’t know. She doesn’t know. She simply walks through the rain, letting the grey droplets strike her face as she stares at the sky and wonders if the rain is real or if she’s merely dreaming or if she’s merely someone else’s dream.
Sometimes when things are real they are fake. But, honestly is anything real in this world anymore? Opinions constantly changing, things constantly changing, change, change, change. When can it just be black and white? A world of gray areas…
She wanted to be real. Her feelings caused her to fade into the back ground. She had the answers to the questions. How could she be brave. Where would she get the courage to speak up. Fear of being ridiculed caused her to shrink back. The time had come. She had been called out and up to say something about the situation. Could she mustard up the strength to use her voice to live and love well? This was the day she decided to say yes. She was gentle with her heart as her emotions ran wild. Her hands were sweaty and her mind start to race with the what ifs. She peered into her imaginary tool box and pulled out a hand full of courage, cupping it in both hands, she held tightly to her truth and then she started to speak. The crowd was silent. All eyes were in her. She spoke of her ” it is finished” moment. Not a sound could be heard throughout the room. Only her voice echoed in the air. The. It started to happen. Small whimpers trickled in the crowd. She saw people. Their chairs reaching for tissue. Tears were falling from several people’s eyes. Her story touched ever soul sitting in the seats that afternoon. It was then and there that she realized how powerful her story was and the need for others to hear it became her passion. She knew if it could happen for her, it could happen for anyone. That day that moment in time she stepped up and out I to the real her.
Real. What is real? If you feel something does it make it real? If the wind caresses my face when I walk outside I know it is real. But my future is not apparent, it changes. I change. But does that make it less real?
He said that he wasn’t feeling it. He called me pretty and nice, but then he admitted something was off. He said my words were too kind and my enthusiasm too overdone. I was too perfect and trying too hard to make this relationship work. But he was wrong. My love was genuine, and now so is my heartache.
She looked in the mirror
Fake all fake
Her face with smeared makeup
Her body with all the surgery
Her own person
A figment of the imagination
She got rid of it all
and finally felt
beautiful.
what is real? who gets to decide what determines reality? it’s frustrating to talk with people who say “you are not dealing with reality.” how do they know? the hubris of people amazes me. that they can dismiss my version of reality because it does not meet the version applied by most people in the world seems either arrogant or insecure. take your pick.
how will you be remembered ?
does it even matter about what people think off you or what they dont ?
maybe its in our mind, this thing which tells us makes us feel embarrassed or even happy
but the truth it that it really doesn’t like fuck with people
if you’re happy don’t change anything or if you’re not change something !
as simple as that !
i doubt anything is real. maybe more a reflection of what we believe as the eyes can be be deceiving. Reality, or dreams, or imagination, what can it be?
fake unicorns dogs cats loins me you the sun fish TACOS mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm I love you tacos nom nom nom cake wait cheesecake MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
I wonder what is actually real and what is merely a figment of our intrepid imagination. I see and experience things every day that I consider to MEAN something to me, however, if they’re not real, does it still matter? Should I still care? Is life still worth living?
Nobody really knows what’s reality anymore. Everything is known by how it’s perceived. A woman can be thought of as wretched and unfaithful just because she’s liberated, but in truth, she’s the most loyal lass in the land. Nobody really knows what’s reality anymore, but we manage and we just accept how things go, because there really isn’t anything we can do about it.
My reality is altered by my thoughts and vison of the world. And that comes from the way I was brought up an all my fights while developing my personality. What is reality anyway? And how can one now what is real, such as love, sincerity of people and so. I’m not sure if I know the real me, let alone the reality of the world. Sad.
It was true. I don’t know how I never understood that before. Surely there had been signs, surely…something to indicate that he felt like that… I would never forget the site of his bleeding, limp body lying there, wondering why, why, why, not letting my self see it as real.
real is a word that depicts what is happening around us. This word has many other meanings in the respect of how people think about it. Some people look at things in reality through their various emotions. Some cannot believe the horror of the reality they see before them, others that they are so lucky
Real or not, I was not taking and chances with my life. The concoction that was placed on the table in the tea shop, looked delicious, But I did not like how it looked, though how many times my host tried to convince that it was real meat and good to the pallet.
The winter wasn’t real, just a facade to cover up what had become an early occurence every year. You never knew exactly when it would happen because it came earlier every year,
Reality is a concept, in my opinion. Does something really get less real if I just imagine it in my head, for example? Isn’t the fact that it is in my head, and thus incredibly close to me, more real? Isn’t a thought created and harbored by myself more real than the abstract concept of thousands of people dying and starving and being born hundreds of kilometers away from me?
“Don’t wish that it was just a dream.”
But the things that had happened were so fantastical, she didn’t know if she could actually believe they were anything but a dream. How could it be real? She had experienced what it was like to run on four legs like a horse, to know the world around her as a wolf did. How could that be real?
“If you wish it to be a dream…that’s all it will be.”
She wanted it to be real.
This can’t be happening. The donkeys at the left table are having their skin seared off with burning coils and the noise is unbearable. Really though, the girls are just singing a butchered rendition of what I think she said was a jazz tune. I don’t really know but my ears are bleeding. Kill me.
What is real?
I’m not sure
is the sky real? In all its glory and mystery, its blue glow drawing me to its familiarity, its warmth
days as beautiful as this make me question what truly is real and what is a dream
what is a nightmare
what is a vision
what is right and what is wrong
what is up
where is down
when did this get here
who am I
why is this sky blue?
does anyone really know?
what is real? reality is just an illusion, right? but what i’m feeling right now has to be real because it’s not learned, it’s not a result of this experience right now, it’s REAL because it’s ME. it’s MINE. sl the only thing that is real in this life is what we cannot control. what we shouldn’t control.
It seemed real, but then again, what does that mean? Your arms were there, scraping against mine. You lips were chapped, rubbing against mine. Your eyes were blank. Your shirt was off. Your chest was bare.
It was so hard for me not to be something “real,” like an accountant or computer programmer, but the way that I am, I just couldn’t sit at a desk for 5 hours without losing my mind.
“I am real.” I squeal, as my vision turns to white. The boy standing above me, what was his name? Mark? Matt? I don’t remember. He stares through me sadly, choosing to observe the gnarled chair behind me than my salty eyes. My eyes become unfocused. The boy’s silhouette is burnt into my retinas by the blinding light behind him. I think his mouth is moving, but I can’t hear him.
I hear a bell though. It rings loud and clear. My ears can’t pinpoint the sound. My eyes fail completely. The ringing surrounds me. The ringing comes from me.
So it was all real. From the beginning where I got stabbed and till now. I was in a comma. For two months I have been this way. It does not feel or seem real, not at all.
They said, “welcome to the desert of the real”, as ifＩhad just arrived and I hadn’t always known that this is the way things were. The way real seems to question its very existence as soon as it tumbles out of my mouth, the way that it seems like I’ve stumbled upon a very secret upon a secret cliff the second we question ourselves.
Is this real?
Are you real?
What is real? What is it? What if it’s not? What if it isn’t?
People swear to things they believe are real. “I swear to anything that’s real,” is not a realistic statement because people have different ideas of reality. I don’t believe in God but someone else does and if I swear to God they will be offended, and if I swear to anything that’s real they will be offended because I don’t think God is real. Anyway, reality’s cool.
I believe most of things which we see in dreams are not real. They are just some abberant thoughts of our mind. We need to be real when it comes to understanding the problems.
The acting was superb. I said my improvised lines truthfully, and so did he. It was filled with emotion, gleaming eyes, tears, pain. The audience cheered on us. And one day, the scene became real. It happened. Just… just as if it had been a prediction. That day, theater became my life.
authentic, fresh feeling, hurting, joy ,suprising events. how it was meant to be, pristine and pure.
the real me is someone difficult to describe. i’m not even sure it exists. the me that is genuine is as fluid as water, and as changeable as the colors on a chameleon’s back. “real” must be relative. at least that’s what I’ll tell myself.
Real*
*My contain artificial ingredients.
She had always figured she’d know it when she saw it – that spark of real affection, the genuine chemistry that always accompanied true love in her mind. Lace was a big believer in love at first sight. Raised on a steady diet of romcoms and fairy tales, could anyone blame her?
Not that she had any real life representation of what true love was. Her mother was a lonely woman, who had gone through a string of men throughout the course of Lace’s life. And her father was a bit of a manwhore, her parents ultimately divorcing after one of his affairs was uncovered.
I woke up and as I rolled over to see his sleeping face I remembered I was angry. No…furious. I smacked him with a pillow and he shot up in bed. He was confused and groggy as I yelled at him for being able to sleep so soundly knowing that I was mad at him. He had no idea what I was talking about. It was then that I realized the reason for my anger wasn’t real, I had just dreamt it.
How embarrassing.
Forget about it. Like it is ever going to actually happen. It is impossible to achieve. But I supposed it is also subjective to each person and what they believe. That is the trouble with perception, there is nothing that is actually factual and real. It is all subjected to our biases and our pasts and our demons and what we have all left.
I have already done this word. Why is “real” the word of the day? Am I dreaming? Maybe I am lost….maybe this isn’t real. Help me….
reality. is it a phase? is it actually something tangible? you don’t know. we don’t know. She doesn’t know. She simply walks through the rain, letting the grey droplets strike her face as she stares at the sky and wonders if the rain is real or if she’s merely dreaming or if she’s merely someone else’s dream.
Sometimes when things are real they are fake. But, honestly is anything real in this world anymore? Opinions constantly changing, things constantly changing, change, change, change. When can it just be black and white? A world of gray areas…
Life is real. God is real. I wish people could see just how real God is. Oh the renewing that would take place of minds and souls.
She wanted to be real. Her feelings caused her to fade into the back ground. She had the answers to the questions. How could she be brave. Where would she get the courage to speak up. Fear of being ridiculed caused her to shrink back. The time had come. She had been called out and up to say something about the situation. Could she mustard up the strength to use her voice to live and love well? This was the day she decided to say yes. She was gentle with her heart as her emotions ran wild. Her hands were sweaty and her mind start to race with the what ifs. She peered into her imaginary tool box and pulled out a hand full of courage, cupping it in both hands, she held tightly to her truth and then she started to speak. The crowd was silent. All eyes were in her. She spoke of her ” it is finished” moment. Not a sound could be heard throughout the room. Only her voice echoed in the air. The. It started to happen. Small whimpers trickled in the crowd. She saw people. Their chairs reaching for tissue. Tears were falling from several people’s eyes. Her story touched ever soul sitting in the seats that afternoon. It was then and there that she realized how powerful her story was and the need for others to hear it became her passion. She knew if it could happen for her, it could happen for anyone. That day that moment in time she stepped up and out I to the real her.
Real. What is real? If you feel something does it make it real? If the wind caresses my face when I walk outside I know it is real. But my future is not apparent, it changes. I change. But does that make it less real?
He said that he wasn’t feeling it. He called me pretty and nice, but then he admitted something was off. He said my words were too kind and my enthusiasm too overdone. I was too perfect and trying too hard to make this relationship work. But he was wrong. My love was genuine, and now so is my heartache.
She looked in the mirror
Fake all fake
Her face with smeared makeup
Her body with all the surgery
Her own person
A figment of the imagination
She got rid of it all
and finally felt
beautiful.
what is real? who gets to decide what determines reality? it’s frustrating to talk with people who say “you are not dealing with reality.” how do they know? the hubris of people amazes me. that they can dismiss my version of reality because it does not meet the version applied by most people in the world seems either arrogant or insecure. take your pick.
how will you be remembered ?
does it even matter about what people think off you or what they dont ?
maybe its in our mind, this thing which tells us makes us feel embarrassed or even happy
but the truth it that it really doesn’t like fuck with people
if you’re happy don’t change anything or if you’re not change something !
as simple as that !
i doubt anything is real. maybe more a reflection of what we believe as the eyes can be be deceiving. Reality, or dreams, or imagination, what can it be?
fake unicorns dogs cats loins me you the sun fish TACOS mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm I love you tacos nom nom nom cake wait cheesecake MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
I wonder what is actually real and what is merely a figment of our intrepid imagination. I see and experience things every day that I consider to MEAN something to me, however, if they’re not real, does it still matter? Should I still care? Is life still worth living?
Nobody really knows what’s reality anymore. Everything is known by how it’s perceived. A woman can be thought of as wretched and unfaithful just because she’s liberated, but in truth, she’s the most loyal lass in the land. Nobody really knows what’s reality anymore, but we manage and we just accept how things go, because there really isn’t anything we can do about it.
Very few people are real. I like real cream cheese, not the light kind. My boyfriend, Edmond Dantes, is not real. I am really tired of the cold.
Very few people are real. I like real cream cheese, not the light kind. My boyfriend, Edmond Dantes, is not real.
My reality is altered by my thoughts and vison of the world. And that comes from the way I was brought up an all my fights while developing my personality. What is reality anyway? And how can one now what is real, such as love, sincerity of people and so. I’m not sure if I know the real me, let alone the reality of the world. Sad.
It was true. I don’t know how I never understood that before. Surely there had been signs, surely…something to indicate that he felt like that… I would never forget the site of his bleeding, limp body lying there, wondering why, why, why, not letting my self see it as real.
real is a word that depicts what is happening around us. This word has many other meanings in the respect of how people think about it. Some people look at things in reality through their various emotions. Some cannot believe the horror of the reality they see before them, others that they are so lucky
Real or not, I was not taking and chances with my life. The concoction that was placed on the table in the tea shop, looked delicious, But I did not like how it looked, though how many times my host tried to convince that it was real meat and good to the pallet.
The winter wasn’t real, just a facade to cover up what had become an early occurence every year. You never knew exactly when it would happen because it came earlier every year,
Reality is a concept, in my opinion. Does something really get less real if I just imagine it in my head, for example? Isn’t the fact that it is in my head, and thus incredibly close to me, more real? Isn’t a thought created and harbored by myself more real than the abstract concept of thousands of people dying and starving and being born hundreds of kilometers away from me?