“You’re living in a fantasy”. My whole life that’s what they’ve told me.
“You’re just that head in the clouds type, who inhales dreams, like they’re something of substance.
Who laughs to oneself and laughs out loud. Whose reckless eyes are stigmatized, as an unstable amalgamation of restless energy and immersive introspection.”
They say: “Aimless wanderer, who do you pretend you are? Go dip your starry eyes, into your wishing well, and hoist yourself out, sobered and straightened. It’s time to walk away from the push and pull of the untethered void. Draw some thick hard lines between the real world and illusions. The tangible and the not worthwhile. The useful and useless.”
But I’ve never been able to ignore that realm of mystery, just because it’s misunderstood by those around me. The whispers in the air, beyond the crackling state of stirred-up sensations. The pounding pulse of vitality, beyond any physicality, in the realm of possibility.
So that’s why I’m out here, trudging through dream marshes, a pen as my walking stick, a notebook as my map. Sketching out my odyssey, to the far-flung borders of the imaginary, illustrating these unconscious epics as images of the awakened state.
This is just one of many treks, released from the known and inhabiting the disconnect. I’m still here, grounded on familiar earth, but diverging into multiple realms. Operating interdimensionally, never severed. Existing simultaneously, crossing occasionally, melding often, but sometimes, contrastingly jarring in juxtaposition.
Through specks of creation, pulled from flows of speculation, gushing from the salvaged chunks of dreamscapes I was never supposed to retain. I’m perpetually lured by these cherished relics of shadow existence, which far too often come bobbing to the surface, at the most inopportune instances. Amidst the traffic flow of the present, I’m left glitching with drifting desires, jamming the steady projections and interrupting the static screens.
There’s a painful pull from disparate worlds, leaving so little chance to settle. A state of adaptive discomfort I yearn to subside. Because I’ve tried all other potential remedies to curb the cravings and satisfy my needs. I’d read the surgeon general’s warnings against meddling with the mechanisms of the unconscious. I’ve seen those harbingers of neon danger, detailing a slow poisoning of the memory bank, with each undisturbed illusion. I’ve noted all the side effects of seeking my destinations and I’m not turning back.
The aches are just symptoms of transition. Stretching pains that will soon fade into normalcy, once my mind finally gains flexibility. And with a twinge of lucidity, I’ll finally say: I was always meant to straddle numerous worlds. I’m just not quite there yet, but I’m on my way.
So yes. It’s true. I have been living in a fantasy, when I’ve been fortunate enough to have the opportunity, and I won’t hide it anymore. I’m making peace with my illusions and accepting them as part of my whole. And I can handle the vaporous breathing, as long as I can still drift freely. Happily embracing the unknown, but with just one little piece of surety. I can now see myself with much more clarity, so on the rest of this long journey, whether pushed away or pulled asunder, I’ll know that I was never meant to walk away from wonder.
Nicholas Yandell is a composer, who sometimes creates with words instead of sound. In those cases, he usually ends up with fiction and occasionally poetry. He also paints and draws, and often all these activities become combined, because they’re really not all that different from each other, and it’s all just art right?
When not working on creative projects, Nick works as a bookseller at Powell’s Books in Portland, Oregon, where he enjoys being surrounded by a wealth of knowledge, as well as working and interacting with creatively stimulating people. He has a website where he displays his creations; it’s nicholasyandell.com. Check it out!