#166

I really get confused sometimes. I get confused when my, let's say imaginary, bubble with the all the perfectness inside gets popped out and my dreams and illusions scatter around. And then I get a panic attack, not the common panic attack, but my version of it. And I start running around, all hasty, trying to pick up, protect and once again mend my broken dreams. But all I manage to do in that very moment is... bang in the walls of the box that surrounds me, that I've created to protect myself, to protect myself from the nasty and ugly world. And this box, that felt so safe and comfortable and beautiful before, becomes this scary place, a prison where the bars are not steal but fake desires, fake happiness. It starts to shrink, getting smaller and smaller until I suffocate. And there is nowhere to hide, I just clinch to my little, pathetic dreams and start making a new bubble, filling it up with the old dreams, creating my perfect world again, blowing it up with the hope to prevent the closing walls from crashing me.

Little people have little dreams. They are happy, but only this much. I can't help but wonder if I the feeling of happiness is real. What if it is fake, fake like the thin outline of this bubble. What if the rainbow colour it gets when the sun shines on it is just an illusion? And then again, isn't the little things that matter the most and make the biggest difference?