There is the reality, and then there is the fantasy. It’s so easy to immerse yourself in the latter. A life filled with the “what if?” and the “if only.” It’s a comfortable way to live. The pleasure of the fantasy has become my favorite home.
The reality is harder to deal with. It tells me that I really am the person I hoped I wasn’t. It shows me that an investment in a relationship doesn’t guarantee any returns. It shows me that despite what I desperately tried to alter, career probably trumps love. A career doesn’t break your heart. Love can, love will, love did.
The fantasy, on the other hand. It’s less mundane, as fantasies tend to be. The fantasy puts me in a new setting, where I can start over. Where I can shed the old personality, and create a new one. I spend hours daydreaming; a foreign city, a place where I know no-one. Transforming loneliness into a new life, and leaving behind the ruins of my reality.
I can’t imagine transforming my reality. I don’t know where to begin. It’s bewildering and is filled with a cast of characters too large to manipulate. The easiest thing to do is move on. I don’t see that as running away. I see it as starting over. I see it as a challenge, and I see it as brave.
And yet, I can’t do that. We don’t choose our reality. It finds us, and it twists itself around our arms and legs. Our reality chooses us. It’s a collection of moments, conundrums and fuckwittage.
I live in my reality. But I’m in love with my fantasies.