I have always been somewhat of an imaginative person (although there’s some people that will probably say that I cannot possibly be imaginative but screw them). I’ve always distracted myself with things not from this world. Fiction, daydreams and it all. Many people praise reality and dismiss insanity.  Praise the pragmatists but not the dreamers. Artists are looked down upon, as if one is stupid to choose the arts if one could have chosen the hard sciences, businesses, law or anything else really.

And that is the limitation of reality. I am fascinated by the notions of flight and freedom, of fantasy and fiction.

Perhaps, I am fascinated but things other than reality because I find reality…or at least this reality so limiting.  I am isolated, alienated and have a strong critique over social norms. It’s as if I’m watching the world from afar, watching it as it unfolds but never being a part of it. I puzzle upon people’s priorities, never quite understanding the desire for mates or family, lying to be nice…or worse, fake laughter (especially when it’s so obvious) and assorted social nuances that don’t make sense at all or that I disagree with.

Maybe I’ll never know.

Still, the idea of a different place, a magical place where the world where everything makes sense. Where I can feel some sort of sense of belonging, of connection.

I lack connection. I am alienated to the world, to society.  Some days I think looking out the window, watching as the world goes by from my stance away from it all.  But some days, I wonder what is like to be a “normal” human – to have connection with other people.

But in fiction, I don’t. I was always a dreamer, always staring off into space. Always tired of the limitation of reality.

So I seek freedom in the places I can find them – in my head, in words, in pictures, in motion picture. It’s funny how people can praise fiction but are suspicious of anything other than reality.

Maybe for some people reality is good. People who have lives. But I’m not one of them as I daydream into the open, staring blankly into space.

Maybe all writers are insane.