Everything
feels made up when you are stuck in an orphic reality that is embedded in your
mind. A dream or a catastrophe, it is your sepulchered reality. Mine is pretty
simple. I like to imagine myself tucked in a cottage that blossomed out of the
soil in a land where there are infinite autumns. The cold is cold but you
always have your checkered blankets on your feet. There always burns a
fireplace passionately as if the fire is singing to your bones and warming them
up. You bake orange cookies. You have coffee made every hour of the day. You
have piles of books old and new, with hazy souls and these piles lay down in
front of your windows, looking like a puzzle piece that fits perfectly. Cats,
of course. No fire can warm you up enough if there are no cats with you in the
cottage. One sleeps on top of a pile of books, the other sleeps in front of the
window, watching the birds chirp their wings now and then. A typewriter awaits
as you take a sip from your cup of coffee. The ink demands to be shed, the
paper demands to be scribbled and the thoughts inside your head are knocking on
the doors to get out. You sit, you pour your thoughts and feelings out. And
when you take a look at the couch in front of the fireplace, you catch eyes
with your loved one. You titter, and the whole room catches fire burning
brighter and louder than the fireplace, more passionately, more deliberately.
Love conquers the cottage. Love warms it up. Love makes everything in that
cottage flourish. Because that is what love does. Here you have my safe
reality. I tend to escape here whenever I abhor the undeniably true reality of
our days, which happens quite often. Sometimes I hyperbole and imagine a
neighbor living by the lake, a British author that keeps writing. And one day
she gives me a handwritten copy of a book she wrote called “Orlando”. Well,
then I stop myself there because who wants to escape to a place where you can
be kindred spirits with Virginia Woolf, and then come back into a reality where
privileged white men are ruining the world only for the sake of their egos? I
prefer my reveries.
I prefer
my reveries because “safe” is a myth on these streets. “Safe” is a phenomenon.
No street is safe. No hour is safe. No costume is safe. The concept of feeling “safe” is
ancient in the back of our minds. It is ancient history going back to the times
when were inside the womb. Yes, I prefer my reveries where I do not have to
feel my heart in my throat every time a car stops near me when I am walking on
the streets. I prefer my reveries where I can listen to music without worrying
about who could be following me from behind. I prefer my reveries where I can
express my thoughts and feelings without having to worry about being punished
for doing so. Yes, I rather stay in my reveries. Change my mind if you can. Or,
disrupt your own comfort and choose empathy. Disrupt your safe zone and
understand how far we are from the concept of “safety”. Come out of your
chained, secured palaces and feel my fury. Until then, I prefer my reveries.
