"Reality is where I eat, sleep, survive.
But imagination…
That's where I live."
Dear Diary,
Sometimes people call me a "dreamer" like it's a warning.
Like I'll float too far and forget how to breathe in the real world.
Like imagination is a curtain I need to pull back, not a door I can walk through.
But they don't understand —
Imagination isn't my escape.
It's my return.
When the world is too loud, I go inward.
I close my eyes and open kingdoms.
I speak to oceans that answer back.
I fly through forests with names.
I sit under skies made of glass and listen to clouds whisper stories.
No one taught me how.
It was just… always there.
Like a friend who never left,
even when the lights went out or the hallway outside my room felt too big to cross alone.
Imagination sits beside me when I feel invisible.
It braids my thoughts into galaxies.
It tells me I am not too strange — just too sacred for shallow places.
When I was younger, I used to pretend my pencil was a wand.
That every time I wrote a sentence, I was casting a spell.
That somewhere in the air, my words built a home no one could burn down.
I still believe that.
Because when everyone around me tries to make sense of the world…
I make magic of it.
And maybe I don't always fit in —
but that's okay.
I wasn't meant to fit in small spaces.
I was meant to create bigger ones.
Ones where clouds wear earrings,
and grief grows gardens,
and friendship lives in teacups.
My imagination doesn't ask me to be perfect.
It only asks me to play.
And sometimes, Diary… that's the safest I've ever felt.
So yes, I am a dreamer.
Unapologetically.
Softly.
Wildly.
Because in a world that constantly tries to dim wonder,
my imagination is the candle I keep lit.
It is my mirror.
My companion.
My most loyal friend.
And when the real world forgets who I am,
my imaginary one says,
> "Welcome back. We've been waiting."
Till tomorrow,
Wunor 🌈🌙