![]() They couldn’t have known that I’d been interacting with a deep, intense, and all-encompassing fantasy world one that provided me stability and a sense of connection one within which I was immediately valued one that would go on to define my life for decades to come. Still, I accepted the treat and went home with my parents, neither of whom knew the truth about what I’d been doing. I’ll always remember the nurse who presented me with a lollipop, knowing full well I couldn’t eat it. There, the doctor on call asked me what I’d been doing that led to me having such a high-speed collision. The inside of my left cheek split open, and I had to be rushed off to the hospital for some unwelcome stitching. One day around that time, lost in a particularly engrossing fantasy, I slipped on the Saxony carpeting and smashed face-first into a brutally solid credenza. Moments later, I’d be back at it - first walking, then running, as the record player blasted LPs loaned from the local library. If you’d managed to catch a glimpse of me in action - a tall order, as even then I was highly secretive about my daydreaming - you’d have occasionally seen me dip into a corner and mouth one side of a mysterious conversation with the wall. I circled it endlessly, pausing every so often to grasp one of the four chairs and gaze out the window at nothing in particular. In those days, I could regularly be seen racing around the wooden table in our dining room. My earliest memory of daydreaming obsessively and immersively is from when I was about 4 years old, an age when imagination is often a healthy playmate. I am - though it's not yet a recognized disorder - a maladaptive daydreamer. But it all happens in my darkened living room, where I pace incessantly, my earphones blasting, utterly alone. The whole affair is satisfying, ego-boosting, refreshing. "Thanks, I thought you’d like it," the friend replies. Humbly, I step out of the spotlight and carry on my conversation, becoming engrossed in my friend’s discussion of a recent artwork. We have a brief, scintillating chat before I double back to offer the group an impromptu rendition of my favorite Edith Piaf song, "L’accordeoniste." The applause is brief, but sincere. Such creativity! Such wit! It’s all the small crowd can do to keep their mouths shut as I march past at a quick pace, tap the far wall with one fingertip, and start back in the opposite direction. But my unusual beauty is nothing compared to the brilliance between my ears. And so they should be, because, brother, I’m a stunner. Well, not everyone, but everyone I’m interested in - 10 or 15 familiar faces. ![]() I glide into the room, bathed in silvery light, heels clicking.
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