How long has it been since I wrote that piece? Years. Years since the days of the old Writalla. Years since the crappy business cards, and nameless sneaky faces in the halls. God, that was so mean. But was it really? I wanted it to be real just as much as I wanted them, her, to believe it was real. And she did. So, for a while, it was real.
I read back in this journal through March of last year. And I found something, posted sometime 3/03:
“Why is it that we are so concerned with imagining ourselves in positions that would never happen? Why do we spend so much time simply fantasizing? Living vicariously through… nothing. It’s stupid, is it not? When one spends so much time imagining life to be a much more beautiful place, it only makes the real world seem drab in comparison. So, while it may feel good at the time to live in those wonderful dreams, do they really help you to be happy? Or do they make you more unhappy with life because it will never compare to what you can conjure in your head?
People like me can get into trouble with such conjurations. For as long as I can remember, I have spent large amounts of time daydreaming. Especially when I am writing. I can get lost in my own labyrinth of characters and events, until it no longer feels like a dream, but a memory. I remember it as though it actually happened. It can be very frightening, you know. One day you can tell the difference between fantasy and reality. The next, you’re wondering if that yellow elephant who slept on your floor last night will still be there when you get home from work.”
Wow. It’s amazing how things in my life will always be the same. Perhaps that was why magic always came so easily to me. Things go from being impossible (or even unlikely) to beyond possible, but existing.
It’s time for work.