The times I find really fascinating are the times of forgetting, or perhaps of remembering something lost a long time ago. The times of letting go, of slipping back into the honest mind of childhood, before we learned all these personas and defense mechanisms and ways of being good at things. Those are the magical times.
Once a long time ago I walked into a room on a breezy fall evening, with fog hanging in the air and almost hiding the full moon. My mood, for some reason I can't recall now, bordered on the surreal, I was already deep in my creative side. On a whim, I asked her to step completely outside of reality, and somehow she understood. Then we went to a mythological place, somewhere I never could have invented, and I can't really tell you what happened during that 90 minutes; because that wasn't what mattered. It was a dream, except I was really there, she was really there.
Or at least I think so. After all, what is reality?
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