A friend once called me an incurable romantique. I laughed. She did not know me well. Even so she somehow was right: she did see something in me. Another person told me that I am “o fantezistă”. This person was also right. And now what does all this mean? That I might have to return to reality; with a little observation: It is not about “my reality” anymore.
For those who did not see “my” -> illusions. Same flower. Different feelings.
alinastamboala 
Sometimes I think illusions are a language all their own. Layers of diaphanous silk thoughts and subtle movements of the body shielded behind probing eyes and smiles of various truths and emotions. What are we then, but the blend of what we show in the layers of silk and that which we hide beneath it all. There is a certain beauty to it as we choose what we see or don’t see. Lovely illusions, Alina.