Daydreaming

I shouldn't. It's not healthy. It's the number one sacred rule on self-help books. It's stupid. It's a waste of time. And it breaks me more after. But I crave it. I need it. It's what I look forward all day. To get into bed when everyone's asleep and make believe.

I pretend. I make up stories in my head. I picture memories and twist them in what they could have been. I impose what ifs on my memories. I impose what ifs on future. I allow myself to have a little happiness. I allow myself to pretend I'm someone else. Someone who's got a clean slate. No regrets. No scars. Not broken. Someone who still has faith in humanity. Not a cynic. Someone who believes in love and in happily ever after. Someone who believes that there are things that actually last forever.

And it's addicting. And you start to lust after those little snippets in your day when you can fall back to your freshest dream. 

 It's sick. It's painful and sick and crazy. Because every time you're brought back to reality it seems even worse. And now I know how Dorothy felt in her greyscale world. And I understand why Alice would make up a whole new world filled with talking animals and plants. And I wish I could do like Peter Pan and fly away and fight with pirates and talk to mermaids and Indians and make-believe.

Because the monotony of reality crashes down so hard around you that you feel like the walls are closing in on you. And you start to understand why people feel the need to write stories, produce films, read books, watch TV shows.

Anything to escape for half an hour from reality.

Anything to feel light.

Anything for a few moments of colour.