Maladaptive daydreaming

Echo & the Bunnymen albumย cover

๐ƒ๐ซ๐ž๐š๐ฆ๐ฌ ๐จ๐ง๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐ ๐ฎ๐ข๐๐žย 
ย ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐ฎ๐ง๐ข๐ฆ๐š๐ ๐ข๐ง๐š๐ญ๐ข๐ฏ๐ž,ย 
ย ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ฉ๐ž๐ซ๐Ÿ๐ข๐œ๐ข๐š๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐œ๐ฎ๐ฅ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ž๐,ย 
ย ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐ฌ๐ช๐ฎ๐ž๐š๐ค๐ฒ ๐ฌ๐จ๐›๐ž๐ซ,ย 
ย ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐Ÿ๐š๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฒ-๐จ๐ซ๐ข๐ž๐ง๐ญ๐ž๐,ย 
ย ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐๐ข๐ž-๐ก๐š๐ซ๐ ๐Š๐ž๐ซ๐จ๐ฎ๐š๐œ ๐ฐ๐š๐ง๐ง๐š๐›๐ž๐ฌ,ย 
ย & ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐ซ๐ž๐œ๐จ๐ฏ๐ž๐ซ๐ข๐ง๐  ๐š๐๐๐ข๐œ๐ญ๐ฌ.ย 
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ย ๐…๐จ๐ซ ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐ซ๐ž๐ฌ๐ญ ๐จ๐Ÿ ๐ฎ๐ฌ:ย 
ย ๐๐ซ๐ž๐š๐ฆ๐ฌ ๐ฉ๐ž๐ซ๐ฉ๐ž๐ญ๐ฎ๐š๐ญ๐ž ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐ซ๐ž๐ง๐จ๐ฐ๐ง๐ž๐ ๐Ÿ๐š๐ฅ๐ฅ๐š๐œ๐ฒ ๐จ๐Ÿ ๐ก๐จ๐ฉ๐ž, ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐›๐ข๐ซ๐ ๐ฏ๐จ๐ฆ๐ข๐ญ ๐ญ๐ก๐š๐ญ ๐ข๐ฌ ๐ก๐š๐ฉ๐ฉ๐ข๐ง๐ž๐ฌ๐ฌ.ย 
ย 
ย ๐๐ž๐ข๐ง๐  ๐š ๐๐ซ๐ž๐š๐ฆ๐ž๐ซ ๐ข๐ฌ ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐ฆ๐จ๐ฌ๐ญ ๐ข๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ฅ๐š๐œ๐š๐›๐ฅ๐ž ๐จ๐Ÿ ๐š๐Ÿ๐Ÿ๐ฅ๐ข๐œ๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง๐ฌ.
ย 
ย ๐˜“๐˜ฆ๐˜ต ๐˜ฎ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ต๐˜ฆ๐˜ญ๐˜ญ ๐˜บ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ ๐˜ธ๐˜ฉ๐˜บ.
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ย ________________
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ย ๐™ˆ๐™–๐™ก๐™–๐™™๐™–๐™ฅ๐™ฉ๐™ž๐™ซ๐™š ๐™™๐™–๐™ฎ๐™™๐™ง๐™š๐™–๐™ข๐™ž๐™ฃ๐™œ ๐š’๐šœ ๐šŠ ๐š๐š’๐šœ๐š˜๐š›๐š๐šŽ๐š›๐šŽ๐š ๐š๐š˜๐š›๐š– ๐š˜๐š ๐š๐š’๐šœ๐šœ๐š˜๐šŒ๐š’๐šŠ๐š๐š’๐šŸ๐šŽ ๐šŠ๐š‹๐šœ๐š˜๐š›๐š™๐š๐š’๐š˜๐š— ๐šŠ๐šœ๐šœ๐š˜๐šŒ๐š’๐šŠ๐š๐šŽ๐š ๐š ๐š’๐š๐š‘ ๐šŸ๐š’๐šŸ๐š’๐š ๐šŠ๐š—๐š ๐šŽ๐šก๐šŒ๐šŽ๐šœ๐šœ๐š’๐šŸ๐šŽ ๐š๐šŠ๐š—๐š๐šŠ๐šœ๐šข ๐šŠ๐šŒ๐š๐š’๐šŸ๐š’๐š๐šข ๐š๐š‘๐šŠ๐š ๐š˜๐š๐š๐šŽ๐š— ๐š’๐š—๐šŸ๐š˜๐š•๐šŸ๐šŽ๐šœ ๐šŽ๐š•๐šŠ๐š‹๐š˜๐š›๐šŠ๐š๐šŽ ๐šŠ๐š—๐š ๐š๐šŠ๐š—๐šŒ๐š’๐š๐šž๐š• ๐šœ๐šŒ๐šŽ๐š—๐šŠ๐š›๐š’๐š˜๐šœ. ๐™ธ๐š ๐šŒ๐šŠ๐š— ๐š›๐šŽ๐šœ๐šž๐š•๐š ๐š’๐š— ๐š๐š’๐šœ๐š๐š›๐šŽ๐šœ๐šœ, ๐šŒ๐šŠ๐š— ๐š›๐šŽ๐š™๐š•๐šŠ๐šŒ๐šŽ ๐š‘๐šž๐š–๐šŠ๐š— ๐š’๐š—๐š๐šŽ๐š›๐šŠ๐šŒ๐š๐š’๐š˜๐š— ๐šŠ๐š—๐š ๐š–๐šŠ๐šข ๐š’๐š—๐š๐šŽ๐š›๐š๐šŽ๐š›๐šŽ ๐š ๐š’๐š๐š‘ ๐š—๐š˜๐š›๐š–๐šŠ๐š• ๐š๐šž๐š—๐šŒ๐š๐š’๐š˜๐š—๐š’๐š—๐š ๐šœ๐šž๐šŒ๐š‘ ๐šŠ๐šœ ๐šœ๐š˜๐šŒ๐š’๐šŠ๐š• ๐š•๐š’๐š๐šŽ ๐š˜๐š› ๐š ๐š˜๐š›๐š”. ๐™ฟ๐šŽ๐š˜๐š™๐š•๐šŽ ๐š ๐š‘๐š˜ ๐šœ๐šž๐š๐š๐šŽ๐š› ๐š๐š›๐š˜๐š– ๐š–๐šŠ๐š•๐šŠ๐š๐šŠ๐š™๐š๐š’๐šŸ๐šŽ ๐š๐šŠ๐šข๐š๐š›๐šŽ๐šŠ๐š–๐š’๐š—๐š ๐šŒ๐šŠ๐š— ๐šœ๐š™๐šŽ๐š—๐š ๐š–๐š˜๐š›๐šŽ ๐š๐š‘๐šŠ๐š— ๐š‘๐šŠ๐š•๐š ๐š๐š‘๐šŽ๐š’๐š› ๐š๐šŠ๐šข๐šœ ๐š’๐š— โ€œ๐šŸ๐š’๐šŸ๐š’๐š ๐šŠ๐š•๐š๐šŽ๐š›๐š—๐šŠ๐š๐š’๐šŸ๐šŽ ๐šž๐š—๐š’๐šŸ๐šŽ๐š›๐šœ๐šŽ๐šœ.โ€
ย ________________
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ย Since the early years of my budding self-awareness, I have been besieged by psychosomatic tendencies. The mind first; the body always second. My parents were unstable, beleaguered book wormsโ€Šโ€”โ€Šalso depressive maniacsโ€Šโ€”โ€Šwho sought the comfort of fantasies in their most utilitarian form, just like everyone else. I feel admiration, but also a certain degree of pity for such self-control. When I started, I unleashed the hatch of this naturally endowed imagination of mine and fell deeper than Alice ever did. And for that alone, I have designated all fathomable feelings of hatred solely to myself. Iโ€™ve never truly loathed anyone because I have always been too busy exerting this potent bile of pure odium onto myself.ย 
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ย My presenceโ€Šโ€”โ€Šas a state of mind, not of the bodyโ€Šโ€”โ€Šwas severely stunted the moment I developed a taste for literature. It was no longer homework or another tiresome task on an endless list of chores imposed by my phantasmagorical parents; it surpassed all those hackneyed and ungracious comparisons such as โ€œentertainmentโ€ and โ€œflyingโ€, โ€œliving another lifeโ€. No language, as an apparatus of expression, could truly define what I experience when confined between the pages of a book; or maybe I am zoning out again to be gracefully and soundlessly slurped through the straw of haziness into the maw of my imagination. If that is the caseโ€Šโ€”โ€ŠI apologise. It happens all the time now.
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ย It started early, with Tolkien and Greek mythology, but the treacherous swamps of my vast imagination were still bare, if hard to cross, but not infested with literary monsters as they are now. But the bigger problem is that now I have developed worlds, characters and feelings of breadth and depth incomparable to any place or person I have ever read about, let alone experienced. And although they are residents of my mind and have not trespassed through schizophrenia or dementiaโ€Šโ€”โ€Što my selfish, possessive reliefโ€Šโ€”โ€Šthey are amusing and enriching, unlike the general indifference of real people which laid the foundations of my misanthropy.ย 
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ย I went there for comfortโ€Šโ€”โ€Štherefore I never feared heartbreak or pain, disappointment or embarrassment. Those feelings are, after all, as fictional as the snafu inside my head and you canโ€™t convince me otherwise. I escaped boredom on a whim over a drink with a group of dedicated friends who were forces of their own of course, either poignantly intelligent or notoriously famousโ€Šโ€”โ€ŠIโ€™m not that big of a narcissist. I spent hours, days, weeks, years in the company of people I could only dream to ensnare, in places I will never be. But I failed to notice the delicate schism close until it was nothing but a smooth, shiny scar. I couldnโ€™t go back to the brutal flarf that is reality, at least not without reopening a passage to complete dispassion through blood and pain.
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ย The pain is unimaginableโ€Šโ€”โ€Šif Iโ€™m saying this, it is true, believe me. I can manifest almost anything.
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ย Intricate worlds and dear friendships are bound to decay if not revisited, venerated. Through the prism of this plutonian aventura of return, I spied the first insignia of machineryโ€Šโ€”โ€Šthe body, my only link to reality. It was all a clangorous ruckus of bolts and parts ricocheting against wobbly but still fairly functional architecture. Page by page, this time with a pen in hand, I managed to build a parsonage of these limbs and sleep in it at night, despite the storms and the demons howling outside. I had a spot of rustic realism inside my head, a sanctuary from the apocalypse. Unfortunately, I still need my imagination sometimes when faced with an intense sense of anhedonia, that ever-present plague, since I decided to come back. Reality cannot compare to the sensory overload that are my worlds, my stories. I have become a refugee inside my own head.ย 
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ย I may talk, I may smile and even laugh, but I am, in fact, barely functional and constantly multi-tasking with other entities grown like trees from the soil of my brain, the rain of my obsession, wishing you could be replaced with a shiny manufactured copyโ€Šโ€”โ€Šโ€œMade inside my headโ€ engraved on your face. Iโ€™m a half-witted deipnosophist, an elegant degenerate, a shallow wet dream. Stony-eyed and reticent, you believe Iโ€™m every bit as perfect as I seem because your idea of what I truly am does not match my appearance, nor my sangfroid and verbal fluency. I would be a god if I was constantly presentโ€Šโ€”โ€Šyes, inhabiting reality for too long makes one develop a knack for narcissism.ย 
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ย I am getting better, my convalescent mind becomes stronger with every real life I fix or destroy to make up for the loss, the pain, the massacre I sieged upon everything and everyone dear to me. Oh, it hurts, it does, like a perforated organ, it bleedsโ€ฆ even if itโ€™s fictional, it made me feel something.
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ย Now itโ€™s either this somnambulism or the drink. I donโ€™t know which one is better.
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ย But itโ€™s a step in the right direction.