I look out of my window and see the woods. One minute I’m seeing a garden where the sun is bright, the next minute I’m surrounded by woodland trees and a million miles away from my life.
There are creatures here that cannot possibly exist. The sky could be made of crystal for it’s only a fantasy, a small calibre of reality that seems to expand forever.
It seems that the imagination and its capacity to create worlds is boundless and yet the time spent in dreaming is limited.
There are places out there where time doesn’t move like it does here, where a year can disappear in a second and a second can seem like a year. Still, time seems linear for us. Our perceptions see one thing happening after another that’s what we describe as time’s march. Even in fantasy that sense of moving in a direction remains.
One thing is true, though. No matter how beautiful these places, battles always find their way in. The soul must fight against its destruction even in fantasy, some might say more so. The form of these battles is always up to the dreamer, whose imagination drafts up the blueprints for each enemy and each friend.
Is it in the act of creation that satisfaction lies? I can never tell. Or is it in the acting out of these dreams, that are raised without scaffolding to succeed or fail as they wish?
Copyright (C) bardicblogger / a thinker never sleeps / Teri Montague 2012. All rights reserved.
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I so enjoyed the allegorical, philosophical aspect of this. I guess fantasy is a metaphor when it’s understood.
Thanks. I sometimes think fantasy is a metaphor and then other times I think it takes on a life of its own, refusing to be categorized so readily.