𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝,
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫,
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐞-𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐊𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐚𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐬,
& 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐬.
𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬:
𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐯𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.
𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.
𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘺.
𝙈𝙖𝙡𝙖𝙙𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙮𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚜. 𝙸𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔. 𝙿𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚒𝚗 “𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚜.”
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 worms — also depressive maniacs — who 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. I’ve never truly loathed anyone because I have always been too busy exerting this potent bile of pure odium onto myself.
My presence — as a state of mind, not of the body — was 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 “entertainment” and “flying”, “living another life”. 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 case — I apologise. It happens all the time now.
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 dementia — to my selfish, possessive relief — they are amusing and enriching, unlike the general indifference of real people which laid the foundations of my misanthropy.
I went there for comfort — therefore I never feared heartbreak or pain, disappointment or embarrassment. Those feelings are, after all, as fictional as the snafu inside my head and you can’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 famous — I’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 couldn’t go back to the brutal flarf that is reality, at least not without reopening a passage to complete dispassion through blood and pain.
The pain is unimaginable — if I’m saying this, it is true, believe me. I can manifest almost anything.
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 machinery — the 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.
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 copy — “Made inside my head” engraved on your face. I’m a half-witted deipnosophist, an elegant degenerate, a shallow wet dream. Stony-eyed and reticent, you believe I’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 present — yes, inhabiting reality for too long makes one develop a knack for narcissism.
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 bleeds… even if it’s fictional, it made me feel something.
Now it’s either this somnambulism or the drink. I don’t know which one is better.
But it’s a step in the right direction.