I have realized that I love writing for the same reason I love reading, it’s escapism in its truest form. I lay aside the day-to-day troubles of the real world and delve into the more interesting machinations of worlds built from dreams. They may be other people’s dreams, unfolding as I read, drawing me down and in, laying aside the world I know to lose myself in the realities of unreality. But often, it’s a playground sprung from my own imagination and an endless stream of whys. The trees grow thusly, but why? The people live thusly, but why? A dragon has died on the edge of town, when dragons haven’t been seen in a hundred generations… but why?
Even when the worlds are darker than reality, even when the folk who live there are suffering fates a thousand times worse that my petty own grievances, I still find solace in the imagining. Because I can fix it, change it, mold it into something better. Something brighter. I cannot write my own life into the perfect ending, but I can craft a life for my dreams. And sometimes, when the mood is right, for other people’s dreams as well.
There is magic here, among the pixels, among the ink, seeped in the screen and paper lying dormant until we dream again.
Come dream again…