I love fantasies.
Except when I try to make them real.
Could be fantasies about anything, but you know what it’s mostly about. Maybe it is different for you. But … I dunno.
Well, anyway, the problem with fantasies is that they get messy and troublesome once you try to realize them, make them real.
The problem is also that fantasies don’t have any soul, if you go into them and never try to make them real. They get distilled, watered down. There is only the bare bones and framework.
That is so attractive. Of course.
I wish I was better at making fantasies real and enjoying what I have. All at the same time.
And I am rambling, as I clean up the attic. Or my part of the attic anyway.
It’s dusty and forlorn up here, pieces of a life – more lives. I wonder what you could see if you went down the street here and looked into all the attics. I think you’d see pieces of many lives, never lived.
Or just clutter, thrown away.
Why did I go up here? I should try to fix my fantasies. I spent a whole morning with them, because I was bloody alone. And why hasn’t Jon called yet to say when he is coming home with the kids?…