Escapism is an art...

I'm not sure where to begin...or where this all began. I've always been drawn to things that aren't. To things that are impossible, things that can't exist. I spoke to them as a child, I wish for them as an adult. My every thought is haloed by their irresistible pull. So where does this leave me? Which place do I call home? How much longer can I fight to keep doing the things that I don't want to do? The things that I know are so wrong...

Is it this way for the writers of the books that I fall into so often? How is it that they can create these worlds and still function when they are finished...when I have such a hard time re-orientating myself after just visiting? Is it the same for the creator of any story, be it movie, or painting, or written word? What is their secret? How can they just...go back?

Each time I leave here...each time I curl in my bed for hours and watch or read or play...and become...it is harder and harder to concentrate. It is harder and harder for me to convince myself to return to life. It is harder and harder for me to stay sane. I know how this sounds. I know this sounds like I am being silly, immature, undeveloped. I thought so too...but now, after years of it...after it's complete and utter persistance...now, where does this leave me? Which place do I call home? And what do I do when I find myself wishing for it, the pull, the relief, the insanity, to claim me?