Every once in a while I have this vision that enters my head. I don't do anything to make it happen, it just creeps through the broken gate, and in through the unlocked back door of my subconscious; barging straight onto the main stage. It's an entertaining, and occupying vision and very rarely am I able to take my mind off of it. If I had the time, my brain would sit, whistle and applaud for the entire performance, and bang on the table for an encore. But because I have to do very important (ha!) things like drive, shower, and feed myself, I can't always squeeze it in. I have to pull the proverbial hook off the wall, and drag the thought out off my temporal lobe and into the wings. Other times, I throw the schedule out the door, and focus on the shimmering, tantalizing thought demanding my rapturous attention.
The vision goes a little something like this: I am wearing a checkered shirt and black pants. I don't look like a picnic blanket, as I do in reality, because in the vision I have lost weight. I'm thinner and I look good, and my complexion is less pasty-dark-circles, and more healthy-glow. My hair looks better than it ever has, even on my absolute best hair days. I'm probably wearing glasses too because I look much smarter. A feat easily attained by removing the absent, open mouthed, blank stare I currently have; yet this time it's more than that. I am clearly (in my fantasy) using my brain to it's full potential.
My surroundings change each time, like a revolving set list of enjoyable hits. Sometimes I'm living in an apartment in New York, or on farm, or in a mansion, or a loft, or really any house featured in a home decor magazine. I'm at the center of the vision, and from my placement you can feel that I have ownership of everything in the place. It's relaxing; looking at myself like that. As a type of transient I long for the days where all my stuff is in one place, and out of boxes. I'll have bookshelves full of my stuff and no one will touch it. It's magnificent.
My job, however, never changes. I'm a writer. Of books, magazines, columns, movies, or greeting cards, it doesn't matter. This is partly because that is what I want to do, and partly because I could potentially do it anywhere and without having to leave my house. Who would want to?
My vision is not very dramatic. It is usually mundane tasks that occur in an everyday setting. Me loading my dishwasher, or putting away laundry. It is a version of myself that is undaunted by the the incessant "wants" and real-world "needs" of my real life. I'm carefree. Obviously I know (in my fantasy) where my next meal is coming from, and am free from the shackles of expectation and disappointment. I go about my days in the vision in a carefree and also day-dream free existence. No need to fantasize about things when you are happy and content. Even the rare problem that pops up is a fun one! I'll need a place to store a birthday cake, or a house-full of guests and I plan pulling the sheets out of the linen closets, and making beds on the floor. The holidays are adventures and not stress-fests. It's a delightful way to spend my day.
Then I snap out of it, wake up, come back to reality, and I suffer from a cloudy detached brain longing for the folds of the familiar fantasy blanket. I go about my days as best I can but I can't help but remember what I imagined my life to be like. I know I am very fortunate and extremely lucky and should count everything in my life as a blessing and yes "first world problem" blah blah blah, but a guy can dream can't he? I can want more for myself, can't I? I can expect more? Better? Right?
But how do I go about it? How do I attempt to make the fictional non-fictional? The other day I was sitting in a coffee shop, looking out at an apartment complex I really like and saying to myself "I'm going to write myself into that apartment." which is an incredibly farcical and pretentious thing to say to yourself never-mind another living soul, and I pulled out my computer and wrote. Wrote two lines. Two lines of what looked to be a terrible short story. It was the shortest story ever. Or the worst greeting card ever because it used both a proper noun and the words "shot at point blank range." I fear that writing myself into home ownership/ self sufficiency may be the most unattainable thing in my fantasy. Yes to a robot chef, and no to a life of written words? Unbelievable.
So I'll stick to my little fantasy. Reality be damned.