I want to slip into my imagination and spend the rest of my waking time there. I feel safe in my dreams, waking or sleeping, in a way that I just don’t outside of them. I feel comforted and warm. It’s as though my fantasies are the only place I feel like I really belong; like my dreams are the closest thing I have to a home. And it’s all just make-believe. Sometimes I resent having to spend anytime whatsoever in the shared reality of the “real” world. The truth is, I find this world almost unbearably disappointing. I wish it was more fantastical. Less about bills and responsibility and more about whimsy and play. I want magic.