Real?

As I sat on the plane and stared out the window I could make out the shape of Sydney in the fog. Easily distinguished by centrepoint looming over the other buildings. It felt as though I was coming out of a dream, still tired. Did that week and a half really happen or did I never leave the runway? I walked through the terminal, no people, not even at the baggage checkin, I did not find many until I reached the train platform.
I know it was real, I'm sick from it. It must have been real, I have a poster with me. The flights had to be real, I've got Quantas' morning tea menu imprinted in my head for life... Nice apples. I know it was real, but being back here where time doesn't stand still, it's hard to believe such a wonderful place exists even when I've seen it with my own eyes. Despite the cold, despite the funds, despite the anticipation doubts I wouldn't change a thing.
It is what it is and that's perfect for me.
it's a place where the magical, the mystical, the comical become reality.

It had to be real, if it never happened where the FUCK is my luggage?