The Waking Hours That Bore Us All

In spite of constant ridicule, an over-the-top approach to both reality and fantasy is the mistress that hides in our closets. We may attempt to store her away, but she'll find a way to make an appearance.

Much like with fantasy, to mount a reflection of reality through art or education, we cannot simply ignore our urges; we must let her breathe. So we dig deeper and deeper into the story. Like journalists of the future, we tell stories that may stem from simple situations, yet expand into an alternative reality so farfetched that it magically transforms into possibility.

Ignoring the laws of nature only allows for our haunting lover to wear another costume. But those who dwell in fantasy do not fear the consequences, for they are either with their Gods or they are God. They accept the secrets in the closet and display them with no earthly limits.

To tell the story of reality, we compete against one another for control over the insanity. We reach with two bloody arms into the pregnant guts of humanity in hopes of pulling out something that resembles the present, the past, or the future. A newborn jammed with sadness, hate, greed, sickness, forgiveness, kindness, bravery, wisdom, and glory. Yet we often fail in our attempts at finding an original child to nurture and take a seat with the stories that have already been told. We fail to let our own closet mistress introduce herself to the world.

Instead of retreat, we tell the same story until its warped and flawed and hardly resembles the original. A pointless circle that results in the fall of entire genres, the fall of exploration, and the dependance on the half-scripted capture of a trivial part of society.

I say let her out. Include her in your teachings, your writings, your speech. Of course give her the respect of a formal debut, but don't wait for the vultures to find her stuck in the midst of your possessions or your fears. Put some clothes on her then let her run wild.