I wonder how many people go through life floating from one
fantasy to another. And how many realise that fantasies are the soap bubbles of
life: readily created, beautiful to look at, and easily popped. How many are
happy with that, I wonder, and how many slump dejectedly into the gutter every
time a bubble bursts?
I have questions about fantasies, such as:
Are they made of the same stuff as dreams?
Are they an essential part of the role playing which makes
up a large part of the game of life?
Are they vital to the artistic temperament?
And so on...
I’ve done well with fantasies, having turned many of my own
into reality. That’s one of the few things I’ve been good at this time round.
Like most things, though, it seems to be a fading skill now. The soap bubbles
aren’t as robust as they used to be. Role playing has become redundant, any
pretence at an artistic temperament is observed with amusement, and dreams are
confined to the hours of sleep.
* * *
I’ve decided that January 1st is a silly time to celebrate
New Year. New Year takes its first breath with the vernal equinox and comes of
age at Beltane. Now is the time to be sweeping up the old stone floor and
bringing in new rushes.
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