Art imitates life, yet I cannot fly.

A feeling of a silent phase of emptiness and loneliness gets you through with art but doesn't always show you a way out.
Art is magic but a non-living emotion. The real magic, the real miracle is the people who make you come out of your shell. 
I hope people find people and write and make art throughout life. What is life without people, an alien in Jupiter? Or an assumption of living with no one to remember you by. 
Maybe that’s why even silence feels warmer when someone’s sitting beside it.
But life, real life, isn’t made of strokes. It’s made of seconds spent with someone who sees you.
Yet I cannot fly through magic but miracle.
And maybe…
life without people is just a story that no one ever hears.
I still can’t fly.
But I’ve seen miracles walk.