On dreams and reality

As I’m sitting here wondering if I should write, what I should write, how I should write, for whom I should write, how often I should write or how much I should write, my need to escape is rising at an alarming rate.

Why am I sitting here typing in front of a boring computer, when I could be living in a unique, exciting, skillfully imagined world that I sketched, molded, constructed, changed and adapted according to my own personal needs?

Why am I sitting here being my own boring self when I could put those headphones on, start pacing and instantly pretend to be whomever I want?

Why am I sitting here grounded in boring reality when I could be exploring the endless possibilities offered by my own imagination?

Because life has taught me that there is a time for dreaming and a time for waking up.

I feel like, in a certain way, there are two hypothetical sides of me. The distinction between the two is very subtle, perhaps even imperceptible, yet it’s as if it were there.  One of them lives for the thrill of dream-hunting, impatiently waiting for the next daydream rush. Pure. Raw. Intense. Exhilarating. Toxic. Addictive. The other side is the one that takes over once the fireworks subside. The other me is the one everyone knows, the one that lives for the thrill of achievement-hunting, for the love of reading and writing, for traveling and for learning.

Sometimes, it all starts with a trigger. A sound, an image, a fragrance, a memory. Then, anticipation. The onset of mental thirst. Elevated pulse. A sudden flow of delicious and vibrant ideas. The world starts building around me. It never completely takes over, though. The real world is still there; I am very aware of it. I sense every sound, every object, ever movement that was previously there. And yet, it’s as if there were two parallel stories occurring at the same time. The new world slowly layers around me like a semi-transparent veil. I feel a surge of electricity traveling down my spine, racing towards my extremities, engulfing me. An exalted deluge of sensory bliss. As the continuous flow of ideas runs its course, my movements mimic my part in the story. I’m absentmindedly pacing, repeating the same movement, mouthing the words, gesturing, acting out the scene. A passing tear, perhaps. A glimpse of hope, maybe even a touch of sorrow, and the faint trace of a smile. Once I reach the plateau, satiation ensues, often followed by a need to conserve my dreams by inscribing them onto paper.

I never follow through, however. They’re far too personal. Far too intimate. They’re alive and ever-changing, therefore writing them down wouldn’t do them justice. Like fresh flowers that we try to preserve by drying them between the pages of an old book, only to discover that their former beauty will, inevitably fade so that they can be transformed into something different. Equally beautiful? Perhaps. But different. Lifeless.

At this moment, my two hypothetical selves have no choice but to ‘coexist’ through what could only be described as a type of commensalism: both take turns benefitting while neither is being harmed. Could it have developed into a parasitic relationship where only one benefits at the expense of the latter? Yes. Years ago, I found myself on the brink of that crisis. And that was when I learned the importance of awareness and self-control. And, most importantly, dedication to certain goals. I am fully aware of the face that my desire to dream-hunt will always be an integral part of who I am as a person. It has shaped my personality, it has helped develop my creativity and it has extended the boundaries of my imagination in ways that I cannot even being to describe. I am not ashamed of it, and I will not deny it.

Yet, I will admit that potentially excessive daydreaming needs to be controlled. Ultimately, we cannot rely solely on our imaginations to get through life, as our relationship with reality and the exterior worlds is essential to our survival. Consequently, I only allow my imagination to run free at certain times, as an occasional break when I am able to relax, refresh, and restart. Or, in this case, as a reward for completing my daily writing goal.

As I’m sitting here writing these last few words, the music is beckoning me. I can feel myself being liberated once more. I let myself go, and as I unlock the door to my mind, releasing the whirlwind of thoughts and ideas, I surrender to the electrifying sensation of bliss. I am the dream huntress, and I have found my prey.


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