I daydream, therefore, I am not. I mean, I’m someone other than who I am. Not me, of course, but the imaginary me. This has gotten a little confusing. Let’s try this again.
I get bored easily. My mind wanders off in search of entertainment and melted cheese. As a child, every toy was a character. Every game piece had a backstory. Pencils launched into deep space with a roar. Once those were taken away, astronauts had no choice but to board my fingers instead. I had to put markers in the desk drawer because their constant chatter kept distracting me. Rubber bands? Forget about it. Those guys are nothing but trouble.
I spent a lot of time outdoors as a kid. Not by choice, mind you. In those days, parents believed that living indoors was a privilege reserved only for the elderly, infirm, and people with air-conditioning. I didn’t get along with all of my trees. My bike had a death wish. I mean, it wished I was dead. My dogs wore capes and flew around the yard, when they weren’t sprawled out, panting under the shade of an elephant ear bush. Much of my childhood was spent sitting in one spot in the yard and watching the world change.
As the years went by, adults always told me to stop daydreaming. Stop imagining things. Stop pretending. Live in the real world.
Here’s the problem. Reality and I have an uneasy relationship. Sure, we recognize one another when our paths cross. There’s that awkward moment where we don’t really know what to say to one another. I make some crack about the weather and Reality smiles, but glances around, looking for an excuse to go. Someone distracts me with a grilled cheese sandwich, and Reality seizes the opportunity to leave. (Did I mention that I have the taste buds of a picky five year old?)
So, I daydream. In doing so, I find that the world is not the only thing changed. It changes me as well. Sure, during the moment, I’m a different character living in a different world, but I don’t get out of the dream cleanly. It remains, floating in my sub-conscious mind, playing video games and enjoying some pizza. I am not exactly the same as I was before. When I daydream, I become someone other than who Reality knows me to be.
I daydream, therefore, I am not.