It could all be so simple, but I’d rather make it hard. Having you at all wasn’t particularly logical, but pragmatism has never been my strong suit. I either live a life completely delusional or so lucid that I embody a myth. The myth that one can have everything. It’s why I get up in the morning, it’s why I breathe. It’s why I take one step after one step after one step on a trail riddled with obstacles made up of supposed impossibilities. It is why I fall deeply, but, it is also why I arise with a resiliency that didn’t quite make much sense either. I’ve encountered enough disappointments in my life to know that practicality is poison to me, a poison always poised to make its way through my veins with the sole intention to eviscerate the very principle that renders me unable to commiserate with the hostages it has already taken. Because, ultimately, how could I come into having it all if I didn’t vehemently believe that it was possible? So if logic must yield to naivety and practicality to an unending hopefulness meant to plague me for the length of my existence, so be it. You are not a myth. You are the reason why the truth even exists. You are the only fact in a world built completely on fiction. You are why I will defend to the death the necessity of living in the confines of nothing more than a dreamer’s dimension. See, it is from this place that I acknowledge that I already have it all, however, you my darling, are simply a physical manifestation of abiding unwavering to such a wonderfully preposterous protocol.