Fantasies are ruining my reality. Witty, clever words come moments too late. Scenarios play out so beautifully in my mind’s eye, but somehow everything is lost in translation to the real world: snappy remarks scramble across the wire from dream to awakeness and emerge as a squawk.
He smiles at you and though in the cobs and webs of your gray matter the scene is completed with a returned jaunty smile and a coffee date, in the stark reality of the 5 o’clock traffic rush, you play the part of a deer in a headlight well enough to earn you an Oscar nod. The moment passes, the bus comes, spirits are crushed. I bang my head against a wall because a cliff from which to throw myself is not readily available.
The world of limitless “once upon a times” is captivating, invoking me with its tendrils of hope and fulfillment. But just under the surface floats my face reflected—my face in the reality that we all walk, and live, and breathe in. She’s still there, buried beneath layers of fluff, veils, nebulae. I see her from a place where the stars are grasped and…
Reality merges with fantasy adding pizzazz and punch to the otherwise mundane events of everyday existence. This silliness is admittedly pilfered from stories of knights in blazing armor and damsels swooning in their distress. Is it so much to ask for? A moment to have all that I fall short of in a world of gravity, concrete, and credentials? Yet fantasy has its poison. The sweet-smelling vapors from which adventures and sitcoms emerge imbue the eyes with a tint non-existent in reality. Everything, then, in the brick-and-mortar world lacks the luster of the other world. The eyes create prison bars around every situation. The world spins on in grayscale. Time passes in a never-ending sequence of yesterday, today, tomorrow. The only egress is a small twinkle just in the corner of your eye. It’s through that twinkle that you enter into star fields that glitter around your face and flash within your hand. But the more you withdraw into this world, the more drained reality becomes. Each return to your time and space disappoints. A flower you once considered breathtaking fades, then wilts, then disappears altogether. Skeletons scrape and rattle where flesh once vibrated with energy. No one could ever live up to your created version of them. Isn’t that the point? Create-your-own adventure. Choose your destiny. If only…if only the vapors hadn’t penetrated so far. If only you could see that it is in reality that the senses dwell. It is only in reality that you can hold her, that you can touch him. That walking without fear is much more rewarding with concrete under your feet and gravity keeping them there. That speaking your mind means nothing if no one is there to here your words. That withdrawal into dreams depletes your entirety in reality—that you become a transparent shade of gray yourself.