I’ve spent most of my life coveting the fantastical, and a
good many of those fantasies I’ve managed to realise. Turning fantasy into
reality has been one of the few things I’ve been good at.
But now the latest batch of fantasies seems too far out of
reach, and I feel a sense of giving up on them. Is that because the current of
optimism that has always run deep inside me, even during the depressive times,
is fading? I doubt it; once an optimist, always an optimist. Could it be the
effect of this CFS I seem to be suffering at the moment? I don’t know yet. Or
have I simply thrown some mental switch over to the setting marked ‘realistic?’
Most likely, I should think.
My life seems to be emptying at the moment. It feels almost
as though some external influence is directing events, or at least that the
whole thing was pre-planned with foreknowledge of cause and effect. I’m
reminded that nature abhors a vacuum, but you never know what nature is going
to throw into the void.
And talking of fantasies, I’ve just seen a blue tit enter
the next box fixed to the wall behind my kitchen. Surely they’re not about to
raise another brood with winter almost ready to hit? Mad.
Or maybe it isn’t mad. Maybe it’s a sign telling me not to
give up on the fantasies. You can never know, can you? Life and its signals are pretty
inscrutable, one way and another.
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