Desperation

I lived in my imagination.
I construct it with my illusion.
I colour it with my memory.

I lived in my imagination.
I build my own blurry boundaries between what is real and unreal.
I create my own cycle that cannot be determined by time.

I lived in my imagination.
Often pretending to hug a surreal figure.
Embedded my self to my own fantasy land way behind my consciousness.

I lived in my imagination.
Playing in my own sandy box with my imaginary friend.
Singing along with arrhythmic tone.

I lived in my imagination.
Where i can hide in my own treasure box.
Bury it and guessing who will found me a decade from now.
This is surreal, this is unreal, this is a dream.

should i open this box and going out to retrace the reality?