Real life is overrated.

Okay, this is exaggeration for effect, but a truth lives here. In the body through which the dream flows exists an infinite capacity for wonder. We are aliens in the world, eyes impossibly wide, nerve endings worn on the outside, touched by everything. Music has the power to soar emotions in those such as us. Breezes can tear hearts; color can sear souls. In a good way.

In this world, motivations are always clear. Retribution is always ready. Justice is always just. The Greedy and the Wicked may triumph, but not for long.

Feet on the ground, head in the sky, we are our own Fantasylands. Real life struggles, often, to live up to that. We feed the Real to keep the Other alive. We trip over cracks in the sidewalk and walk sacred, rarefied paths in our heads. We speak when spoken to; we laugh, share, love, embrace, dine, dance just like the real people we so closely resemble. Delightfully, we’re not them.

This is our lovely duality, our balance. Shift the balance back to the real, and there unhappiness waits. The floating, exultant heights are where we are happiest.

Writing reveals us, reveals the earthbound ET in us. It reveals our capacity to fly. It does not reveal the Why of us. It doesn’t have to.

Want to recognize us in a crowd? You probably won’t, except for a dreaming eye and an acutely developed need to flee. We’ll be the ones edging toward the door, or sitting in the corner scratching frantically in notebooks. We’ll be the ones walking down the street speaking urgently not into cellphones but tape recorders. We are the ones who’ll find ourselves miles past the roadmarker where we last remember ourselves, blown down the road by the ideas in our heads. The odd ones. The quirky ones.

All are welcome in this world. Just don’t expect to be invited to stay for long.

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