What Is Your Reality?

Distortion

I medicate myself against the illness that is reality through fantasy.

Through daily injections of daydreaming and escapism, I live in a reality of my own creation.

That is unhealthy. Madness. Or so I’ve heard. Despicable and low, even, like a drug addict who cannot exist without her next fix, and is unable to face the truth of the sorry state of her own, degenerate life.

But nothing in reality is as wonderful as a thought. Thoughts are delicate pieces of filigree that glitter and gleam in one’s mind, but tarnish and dull when taken out of the velvety folds of the brain to be exposed to the elements of the world.

There are times in every life when we want to sink ourselves into the world in a film, a movie, a scene in our own minds, press ourselves so hard against it that our body leaves the space we currently inhabit to be absorbed into another, kinder one. Victims of horrific torture are only able to stay sane through escapism, through getting lost in the labyrinths of their own thoughts, and facing reality, bland, insipid reality, a cardboard cut-out of on-stage scenery of trees and birds behind which the true woods lie, whispering and lush, for me, is the greatest torture that exists.

No artist tolerates reality; someone said that once, though I do not recall who, only the glowing imprint it left on my mind that has remained for years, and will until the day I die. But I am in perfect agreement. Perhaps there is a crease in the artistic spirit, a wrinkle of the soul, a defect, which distorts reality and turns it into an object of horror. Where others see smiling, mobile, colourful faces, some see the blank visages of mannequins, row after row, pantomiming their pale arms. Why else would we create imaginary worlds in our heads, if but to supplant reality with one of our own, just as people cover dead bodies with sheets so as to not see the decay, the pink-grey rotting of flesh?

And the strange thing is, reality is the ultimate fantasy, for all this is but a grand illusion, that only exists because of our perception and consciousness of it; and even our perception is only one level of magnification. Would you call the world an amoeba sees reality, with its swirls of light and dark and twisting? Whose reality is the true reality? What of those who perceive realities beyond our own, a higher level of perspective distance? Some only see the muddy and arbitrary strokes of paint on the canvas, while others, who are larger, taller, more intelligent, see the painting as a whole, and someone else can see the whole the painting is a part of, and yet another can see the whole of the whole…

Not to mention that, supposedly, there are an infinite number of universes that exist out there. Who is to say that our fantasies, our books, our stories, our magical worlds and creations, do not exist? If there are an infinite number of bubbles out there, surely there is one that contains the fantastical, one where the magical and strange is the norm, perhaps, and where what is normal in our universe is undoubtedly peculiar?

And our realities cannot only be tampered by ourselves, but by others. In effect, lies and falsehoods from the external world can create our realities, and who is to say that such a reality is wrong? Does reality exist, except in our own minds? If it does not, if there is an absolute reality, ours, at the very least, are easily malleable, like clear water which all manner of inks and paints can bloom and muddy.

So, you see, perhaps I am not the mad one, after all. Different people choose different realities, and I have merely chosen to construct my own, to embellish, so to speak, the one I have been handed, the way a person would decorate an empty room according to her style and tastes. There are realities within realities, and realities beyond realities, flowing inwards and outwards, like twisting the dial on a pair of Other binoculars, and our minds are a smaller, weaker form of that same dial, possessing that same power to colour and distort and shift and blur what exists before our eyes and in our minds.

What form of reality have you chosen?

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5 thoughts on “What Is Your Reality?

  1. Where are you?Reply is my driving force of post new thing.

    Trust me.Male INFPs living far more worse then you.Many of them love to pretend INTPs.People who don’t accept who they really are sucks.

    • I can imagine life being harder for a male INFP, due to the social constructs of masculinity which so many boys and men try to mold themselves to. Don’t pretend. Don’t hide. Be yourself! And to hell with anyone who doesn’t like it.

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