When does fantasy cease to what we call reality? And the even more poignant question would be: is reality any different than fantasy? My reality, at present, is an airport check-in waiting area sitting in a plastic chair made to resemble leather attempting comfort; while I watch strangers converse amicably for their overpriced tickets which don't include a checked bag. The walls are all a muted white. Pillars are covered in aluminum. Airline logos are mounted across from me: Spirit, Frontier, Airtram... This place is not real.
And it's not real because people invest nothing of their soul's emotions into this transitional terminal. Paint falls disregarded from the posts which usher travelers to their immediate destination, even before they ascend to the sky. Their eyes notice a disingenuous smile lying on the attendant's visage. Before a green, silver and blue, backdrop she'll counter your thoughts with niceties for efficient procedures. No one notices the lack of judgment the attendant offers with her eyes who have certainly seen enough of this terminal and its ten minute inhabitants to know something deeper of the world. Light pours in from the wall of glass behind me, beyond which remains a thoroughfare for traffic detaching the travelers with their baggage.
This is when most believe their fantasy has ended; where they believe their reality awaits them just beyond sliding glass doors. No amount of hugs, kisses, and good-byes prevents this general stigma for which individuals degrade themselves emotionally. Still, the soul invests little to nothing here.
My fantasy is here. Now. In this seat watching people saunter by with children asleep upon their mother's shoulder while the father's carry Woody, Tigger, Mickey, and his ears. This terminal which builds a space with fake orchids, caged trees, and stunted bushes. Where the linoleum floor is scuffed by leather, rubber, plastic, and the like. In an over protected environment where my depression affects no-one, not even the two with whom I travel.
Reality remains in the last nine days of my vacation, oddly... Counter-intuitively. Still I don't believe that was my reality, but consciously I know it to be true. Four days with my guiding light and five in Disneyland together presented an universe more real and connected than my job, my home, and my daily necessities. My imagination was placed aside as I stepped into my dreams; and it was real. Wishes from my heart were created, and new aspirations embedded themselves along with my childhood ambitions. New inspirations blossomed and bled into a colorful world painted by my pen, my mind, and my hand. I was genuinely happy, enthusiastically encouraged by myself to live, and joyfully realizing the steps I need to achieve to be that happy again.
This fantasy at present pulls me through a black vortex bombarded with multi-directional currents, eddies and gravitational fluxes which depress my emotions. I'm ready to move forward into this chapter, but I despise the conflicts boiling before me. Excitement fills my chest just thinking about the new inspirations, however I regret the turmoil I left behind and to which I return. Perhaps this new-found motivation to achieve my fantastic dreams in reality will give the nightmare to inspiration rather than emptiness. In which case the fantasy to which I go will mirror, in ways, the reality from which I leave unwillingly.
My fantasy will not bend to what is known collectively as 'reality.' My soul will embed itself in a realm so magical that I will not be able to determine one from the other, and the ink that will flow will certainly encompass the beautiful world I know. I will reveal to these blind travelers what is missed in theirs stay. I will not be terminal in my life, even when my own emotions discourage. The truth of reality is the bird fluttering inside the concourse, searching for the crumbs of fresh baked cookies. The truth of fantasy is the child asleep with his Mickey ears as a frantic mother searches for her gate, her eyes doubtful they'll arrive promptly for boarding. The truth of both is the view from the window: rays of dieing light piercing white and gray clouds in a symphony of rainbows permeating in an air tight cabin miles above our home. Does it end with a footfall?
Good Lord, that's depressing. What are you, the lost Bronte?
ReplyDeleteIt was pretty though :)
Meanwhile I'm trapped in my own nightmare from which I can't wake- waiting inside Wolf's camera for my passport photos to print. That way I can finally have visual documentation of my awkwardness.
Why oh why can't I be sitting in an airport somewhere? (with or without mouse ears- I'm easy)