In the deepest chambers of my heart, I held an unyielding conviction: that the realms spun from stories and dreams were the only truths worthy of reverence. They sang with the purity of forgotten echoes and timeless souls. Reality, by contrast, felt like a hastily scribbled tale, a fleeting figment conjured by hands too coarse to craft anything enduring. To me, life itself was the fiction, and the imagined was where the essence of true existence lay hidden.