Is reality real? Or is it a figment of imagination? What
is it in actuality?
Life lives in everyone, but somehow it seems to branch out
and become unique within each person.
What causes this? I wonder at times while thinking of up-
bringing, environment, different circumstances, situations
affecting each person.
How are we supposed to distinguish between reality and our
imagination?
Only way I can see is that intellect makes these decisions,
giving us accurate descriptions and portrayals of what we
are seeing and feeling.
Once that happens, seeing knowledge stepping up and setting
itself properly in our minds.
After accruing many factions of life, knowledge then trans-
forms everything into a more purposeful, tangible form to
be accessed, and begins to be created in what we know as
wisdom are my thoughts on it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem