mystery in reality

 Three words hung in the air. Levitating in gracious glory to his unwanted ignored truth. First was Fantasy, but precisely his love for it. And the other...  The other, a repertoire to his flaws, tied to his significant attraction to Fantasy. The identified mystery, though as plain as it seemed left a retort to the acceptance of this facts, even if brought to the physical, he was left with a cause of unidentified denial. Lastly, the brother, a tickle from the chaos theory, a threatening coalition of a figment and an existing phenomena, 'Reality'. Where his existing and conflicted nature derived the only emotion of fear. The introduction of fantasy, a world that caressed and eased him off his troubles, where incompetence existed as capabilities without fail, no fall, but dominance. The exception of his realistic existence was leisure of his consumption of delicacies, and maybe, if only pleasure from women. Contrast to the ill giving number two of the levitating words, but what...

 He sat staring at the horizon, burdened with the discretion of his broken heart. A scenery of the prelude to his problem made a tear escape the bank of his eyes. Mid air he caught it in skillful motion. He stared at the tear, coaxed by the thought of the possibility of a bleeding mind, he smiled. Melancholy has always been the threat to his comfort. Again he was left alone, burned, scarred, and left to yet again another uncharacteristical flow of questions of his odd nature. But somehow he felt nothing, till his mind replayed events passed that brought nothing but sorrow. A stigma of pain planted in his mind, memories wished to be forgotten but burned to the brain. He wished his mind could bleed, maybe he would forget and finally breathe, or the blood from his mind will bring relief just like the tears of the eyes. That's what they say. But his stubborn mind seemed to find Joy in such lousy alternatives it provided. So he drowned himself in liqour, numming the mind, temporarily w...