World to World

Some say that to write on things not real is less then vain, that it is a practice in futility, that it has no place in this world. Perhaps it is true that the dreams that I sit here with are things from elsewhere? Perhaps they have no place here. Were they doomed to be chained to the gray matter that birthed them? Is this world too much a part of logic to care for what’s not there? Is the fierce beast and the fair maiden forever barred from their rite? The noble flyer leaving a rain of fire, and the golden horned horse from healing all that’s left. Is that world and this at forever at odds, unable to met for even a moment, to look in the others eye and ask why the other was made. It seems to me that both worlds are equally real. The one I feel under me, and the other I love within me. I care not which is truer. One I write for and the other I write in. But I wonder which I would chose if only one were to exist and the other Vanish?