My existence fleets among three worlds; discrete and non-overlapping. The primary world is the one where I have my duties, responsibilities, my family, attempts to conform to expectations and correct my shaky career; it’s the practical world, where things don’t come easy, where A is A, where love has no place, and monotony is accepted as a rule.
Then there is my secret world, the one that I escape to often, where books lustily beckon me to lose myself in them, where music lulls me into serenity, where obscure movies from Iran or Poland or France creates in me a new sense of wonder, where happiness can be sitting under a tree and reading a good book, where a blank page and a pen offers so many possibilities, where I am inaccessible to everyone, where I am me, without any obligations, without any worries, just indulging in unadulterated joy.
There is another world, that is all in my mind, that is as dark as it is blindingly bright. It tells me of things that could have been, of unplanned and unpleasant things, of things that give me nightmares. Then there are the good things, laced with hope, of an imagined love, wallowing in its warm glow till reality crushes it sometime in the future; of someday travelling to distant places, seeing for real what I had so far only read in books; of being accepted the way I am.
Sometimes I’m simultaneously present in all the three worlds. That’s a chaos. So, I have been trying to inhabit only the primary world, slipping into the secret world when it gets suffocating, and trying to let go of the other world of dreams forever. That is the only way to preserve my sanity, even if it will kill the only thing that I treasure, hope.