She was the furthest thing from a realist.

In fact, this girl was so absorbed in her fantasy paper world, that every day, she'd pick up a pen, and write those rhyming stanzas, laced with those overused clich├ęs. Wherever she was, and whenever she found something beautiful she could scrawl on paper, she would.

Everything was beautiful through her stereotypical thick-rimmed glasses. Drizzly puddles on city sidewalks, and glowing cigarette butts in smoking ashtrays. She even wrote about stacked coiled notebooks, pencils with the chewed erasers, and perhaps even that drug-addicted homeless man sitting at the bus terminal every day, half-heartedly asking for change.

Well, maybe not all of it was beautiful, but it made a lot more sense written.

She wondered about what people thought, and how she could intensify their emotions, so much, that maybe those realists would understand. She'd compare tears to salted rain, and fatigue to a falling mountain. She'd put love and breathing side-by-side and eliminate the differences.

(Hey, she's a dramatist. Aren't all poets?)

She was a master of vandalism on spare receipts, bus tickets, and those leftover napkins at those sidewalk hot-dog stands. She'd paint scenes with familiar and not-so-familiar words, and quote the famous and the not so famous.

She'd make this girl the damsel in despair, and that boy her heroic Superman. And then she'd break the stanza, and have the words crashing down on them. She knows that even Superman has to fall sometime.

However, every night, after a day in her inky scribbled world, she'd cross off another day on her calendar, and write the same line at the bottom of the numbered box.

"And she lived happily ever after."

This fantasist has yet to discover contentment outside her paper world.