What is authentic then?

If I loved you,
and I did you true,
then was it not the dream?

Santa says that dreams are not real.

And welcome to this side of that fence,
the grass is colorless.

Nothing
anyone
does
is real.
Fuck you.

Dreams are real if you make them so?
Good luck.

The christmas tree,
as soon as I said it,
disappeared.
I would like
very much
to believe in something,
and not be saying,
"Well, you're not really..."

Where, oh, where did my little dreams go?
They left like everyone else.
Time is such a ruthless bitch -
it was fun pretending though, huh?

If there's anything in the world you could do,
and you knew you could not fail...
Um, be a big fucking star?
I guess, rule the world?

I was not the tree.
I saw it.
I was not the fear or pain.
I felt it.
That's who I am.
Hear this voice?
That's who I am.
That's who you are.
This is who you are.
This is who I am.

But it's not real.
Child, what do you know of reality?
This place
was made.
Make it real.
This clay, you, the world,
molded. Mold it.
It is real either way.
Clay is the world.
Clay is real.
Mold it into a person.
The person is real,
an idea
made
of clay,
made real,
as real as possibull.