Sometimes I wonder about the realness of things. Am I real? Are you real? Am I as real as you? Are you as real as me?
I feel the cold of rain as it hits my skin, and hear the whispers of trees as they send shivers my way. And surely this means that I’m a real girl.
But dream rain is just as cold, and dream trees whisper too. In the morning they are nothing but ghosts.
One day I, too, will be a ghost.
Then perhaps I am nothing but a dream.