...there's little more real than disreality...
I'm sitting here in a hammock writing this. I can hear the sounds of nature all around me, crickets, leaves shedding rain, leaves falling; I can feel the change of the breeze, the sway of the hammock, the light as it dangles incongruously over my head. But despite all the reality of nature around me, nothing draws my attention more than the infinite world resting on my chest.
The night calls to me, but I answer only to my phone. Even as the signal wavers, even as the battery wanes, even as my eyes ache for sleep... the last thing I want to do is turn it off, set it aside, and build worlds of my own.
I have infinite worlds of my own burdening my imagination, and plentiful ink and blank pages to capture them. And though my hand aches from the strain (as I have grown too used to typing), it feels blissfully rapturous to capture these words and worlds once more. There is still nothing quite like seeing the images in my mind come to life through ink on the page; typed letters do no justice to this miraculous act of creation, imprinting my soul on the page.