The thing about expectations is that they are great, they are the most exciting thing possible, starting to predict the future and aim for results yet not given, or even making palns out of it is the most amazing feeling; because you control the future in a way. Even if you know the odds, even if you know some things just couldn't happen, you expect it, and it's great, it makes the wait less painful. But of course, then you face reality.

And reality happens to be much less magical, no special atmosphere, non of the dialogues you though in your mind you would make and the expressions you would have. And, unless you are really lucky, or a damned psychic, they always let you down. So why do we keep counting? Why do some of us wanderers of Fictionland still stick to it?

Because sure, one could say the best is not to expect anything, not to get worked up, have no hope on what's ahead, because then you have no disappointment. There wouldn't be such a thing as falling from the f*ing K2 of hopes and day dreams and hitting hard rock, if only there weren't any climbing, if only the expectations would be left aside and just face the road as it comes.

Doesn't that sound like a magic cure now?

Well, it does. It is. Yet, for us, Fictionlandicans, it is impossible. I always hit hard rock, I always fly too near from the sun, and always, always, go back to build my wax wings. There is something between the period of idealization and crashing hard that I just feel like I'm there with everything I wished for, like if it was real, like if I had succeeded. Then of course I fall in the burning sea. But it all seems worth for that moment, that moment when I feel like I'm flying as high as the stars, because... who wouldn't take some hell for the stars?

Maybe it's just Fictionlandicans masochists....

Maybe it's just a penguin thing....

But  I fly today, along with the stars, trying not to get hit by the incandescent Sun.

By I'm the penguin