I dream of so much. It's what I do best. Lie in bed and dream. Dream of pretty clothes fashioned by me. Of peaceful places. Of being so very far away from everybody I know (with one or two honourable exceptions, of course).
In my dreams I'm pretty and slim and graceful and soft-spoken and elegant and a hundred other things I'm not. I'm not sure I want to be them exactly, but it's fun dreaming I am them. My hair is long and silky and I wear pretty jewellery and eat dainty foods. And sometimes I walk away into nowhere and return later, much later, with no memories of where I went, but with a wistful feeling that I would like to return. In my dreams I can run away with that man who haunts these dreams -- and come back later, happy, to the people and places that make up my life otherwise. I think what I really want are escapades, not an extended romance. Somehow, that has lost its charm. But if one runs away for a few hours, one can be utterly happy for that little space. It gives one something to dream of and anticipate. And it cannot be spoiled by things like electricity bills and the demands of neighbours. Besides, it is such a very charming prospect.
One leads a 'normal' life to all appearances, doing the usual round of chores and looking after one's family. And then, when one is entirely free, one opens a door and for an hour or two, is in another world, where the rules are relaxed and it's permissible to be selfishly happy. And one looks and sounds happy because one really is content. Afterwards, one returns to one's family and normal life and is satisfied with it, because that is also wanted. This way, reality never gets overwhelming.
If I had such a world to escape into as I dream of, perhaps I would fail to return these days, the way I feel. That cannot be a good thing I suppose. The charm of such a world lies in its occupation of a few hours. And yet, I can lie dreaming in bed and forget the things I do not wish to remember. That is more than most people have I suppose. And the hero of my dreams is more accomodating than most, changing himself to suit my needs, disappearing at will. A real lover could never compare, unfortunately.