I've spent most of my life revelling in fictional realities, in alternative dimensions and fantasy worlds. I've sailed the ocean, trekked through forests, been in space more times than I'd care to mention. I've seen aliens, met ghosts, been crushed by robots. I've had dialogues with all manner of imaginary friends - beasts and beauties, brilliant and brick-thick. I've escaped - through watching, reading, writing, imagining. I've done so because I hated where I was, what I was. Because it just looked more fun and could give me time to relax. Because I had nothing concrete or real to go to.
And now, here it is, real life looming above me - requiring an attention I'm not used to affording. I feel completely inadequate and incapable. I know I'm not. But it does all seem like too much too soon - so that I must organise my mind before organising material possessions, get myself remembering that - actually - I exist. Here. I am real, a person who affects others, whom others affect in their turn. And it seems stupid to be realising this at age 23 - when I think more people understand at around 7 or so.
