Writing a true story

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Right now...

I'm writing a story. It's categorized under fiction. It happened in real life. I write it as squarely as it happened. But still, it's fiction. It's not even a fiction based on true story. It is a true story that is considered as fiction. I've said the word "fiction" four times already. And that just made it five.

Imaginary. That's almost all of it. It was as if a walk in a dream. It seemed all true. It felt so true. Because it was felt in the veins. Because it was felt in the heart. Because the stars brightly shone even amidst the breaking skies.

I'm writing about red lights. I'm writing about a person who pedaled through these lights. I'm writing how it has been a dangerous ride.

I'm writing from a point of view.

And I'm writing from someone else's point of view.

I'm trying to write from two very different people's points of view.

I'm writing fiction. It's about struggling. It's about discoveries. It's about people. It's about growing up. It's about perception. It's about the heart. Of all the things it is, it isn't about love.

It's as simple. It has no other setting but words and thoughts.

It's fiction.

But it happened.