Fantasy

How much is a fantasy worth? That’s what I’ve been asking myself lately. It’s an odd question, if presented. Usually one wouldn’t place importance in a fantasy; fantasies are regarded as results of our wildest imaginations and our heart’s desire. But no one says they won’t come true. They’re plausible, dare I say. But how much are they worth? If one was asked, they wouldn’t say life would be boring without them, they wouldn’t say it would be some sort of death, even if I believe that to be true. If I fantasise today about rain, I’m dreaming about the possibility of happiness. I’m fantasising as a method to gave hope for the future I'd like. So, I’d argue a fantasy is worth quite a lot because its where we store hope, disguised as 11:11 and genie wishes. Isn’t that what a fantasy is - our deepest desires? 

My deepest desires were revealed to me during a walk back home. The same story has been told a million times. No one can know for sure but people have led the same lives before. This I know, because I’ve lived the same life of bumping into an acquaintance one day after work and finding new love. How were we to know that when all we wanted was rest after a bad day at work, we would find each other instead? There must be commonalities between this story and others’. People have shared the same experiences before - several seas apart. People have felt the same heartbreak, won the same battles, wished on the same star. I asked him if he thought this was true, “Of course there are commonalities, how else do you explain art?” The idea that a piece of work created by an artist cannot be so intensely adored unless it reflects some part of everyone’s story. It’s why people are moved to tears in front of paintings, why lyrics written by one are screamed by many at concerts, it’s why reading precious words can stir the soul and mould it to something different. While he explained this I felt something awaken, a light source brightening - isn’t this what I was looking for? So others must’ve felt this, the hope that I’ve met the love of my life and the fear that I’m wrong. But I still feel alone, like no one understands. I wonder if being human is always a juxtaposition. 

And now we’re walking, It’s a scene from a movie. New lovers walking down the street with the glow of love around them. It’s how I picture us. A picturesque scene of a moment of perfection. New love has a colour - a halo of golden. It shines brighter than most things because it carries all the hope in the world. The hope that fantasies come true. 

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How much does a fantasy cost? We give up a part of ourselves in order to dream. We need to be a little brave to venture into a fantasy. How does one stop fearing that it cannot turn to reality? I had to be honest, be true. How do I confess - “I see a future with you,” or “There’s something so different about you,” most of all “I love you,”. He said them all unflinchingly. Some emotions, he claimed were too much to put into words. He was famous were putting these behind colours, so the ones he could put into the words he did. Art is laying your soul down bare. Artists were able to be vulnerable because they hide the truth behind colours and specific strokes. It’s the power of symbolism, and metaphors, and inner meanings. However hard it was, I was desperate to name these feelings. A fantasy costs all that, the price of your deepest desires spelled out with no façade. 

That’s how I fell in love with him. I saw him for what he was. A man who told his story in colours and not words. A man who paid attention to detail but still forgot appointment dates. A fantasy was born: of us completing each other. A future where I put his colours into words and reminded him of appointment dates.

I wonder still how he fell in love with me. I remembered crying on my mother’s lap because I sat alone at lunch. I had failed, in my eyes at one thing everyone was supposed to know how to do. What does a parent do with a friendless child anyway? You can’t force people to like you, to befriend you, to include you. My parents knew but didn’t know how to tell me that it was just a time I was gonna have to push through. But the scars still ached, long after I survived that. I’d spend nights wondering if anyone ever really likes me and that’s the question I thought over that night: How does he like me? Why would he like me? Would he like me for more than 6 months? 

At a writing class in college, one professor meticulously covered the storytelling arc. The familiar progression of rising action, conflict and conclusion. I remember thinking: what is conflict? Is it a fight? A murder? After all these years I think its the moment the protagonist doubts a happy ending. Behind the curtain, she starts to think princes aren’t real and no one ends up in a castle. Stories are several scenes put together - scenes that come together to form the ending. So when we stand at the finish line we can say oh! this was supposed to happen all along. But what does one do when the ending is uncertain? How do we interpret the scenes then? 

During the walk back home that started it all, I’d caught a glimpse of the past. The past walked by us in the shape of a man I once loved and I ignored it. In another circumstance I would’ve tried my luck and gone after him. But that day I was focused on a blossoming present. All of this I think over while my relationships struggles through the 6th month and we both question the reality of this fairytale. Without knowing the ending, I wonder if that was the hand of fate or if it was a mistake I made. That’s the thing about writers, we pride ourselves on knowing the ending. When we don’t we imagine one. We can make you a protagonist, a morally grey villain, anything we prefer like a switch in our heads. So that night, after a glass of wine I made him a villain. 

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He resisted, he made me see reason. An imagined reality can fade when argued against. He asked me, metaphorically on his knees, is it really your anxiety that stops you from giving me everything? Or do you not want to? When I couldn’t find my own words I mixed his with others and I fought through. I knew suddenly this was all I wanted and losing it would be disastrous. Little girls, sometimes are taught to pick one priority, as if we couldn’t have it all. Boys are distracting, work is depressing and we let women get caught in the middle. I wasn’t going to fall for the trick, I was going to live a type of fairytale that suited me best. 

A fantasy.