We know it’s fiction, of course. Though we play along with the idea—to an extent—we’re under no delusions. There is no question about it. Clearly, it’s fantasy. But somewhere in the deepest recesses of our minds, we secretly consider the remote possibility. We wonder whether there may be a shred of reality tucked into the far corners of that imaginary world. No, of course not! We shake off that brief exploration of the impossible, laughing at ourselves; embarrassed that we would ever entertain such a ridiculous concept. Yet, while we’re unwilling to admit it—even to ourselves—we permit ourselves to glide aimlessly through this whimsical flight of fancy.
But maybe forest sprites really do exist. Maybe the stories about the tooth fairy are based in fact. Maybe Santa Claus is not just a character created to fascinate children. Maybe all the creatures that populate children’s books and childhood fantasies are not just ingenuous fabrications. Maybe they arise from hidden memories that have been repressed to protect ourselves from believing we have lost our minds. Or to protect ourselves from recognizing that reality.
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I don’t believe in magical beings. But I often wish, desperately, I could. A fantasy existence holds so much more promise than a real world awash in hatred, war, famine, thirst, cruelty, greed, poverty, starvation, and an array of other such atrocities that emerge, endlessly, with every sunrise and sunset. The byproducts of these horrors—hopelessness and rage—add fuel to the fire that keeps the cauldron scalding hot. Holiday cheer, drowning in rivers of molten humanity—once belonging to Venezuelan fishermen or drug smugglers—struggles to overcome its diametric opposite: misery.
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Yesterday’s Zoom video with mi familia cercana was far too short. I may reinvest in a paid subscription to Zoom so I can enjoy longer conversations with my brothers and sister (and mi novia). I have another Zoom engagement scheduled this morning with a pair of friends from Dallas. Even with my preference for limited social engagement, I find myself wanting to bask in the comfort of time with family and friends. I sometimes worry that my comfort with seclusion, though, is viewed by some people as meaningful, targeted, intentionally vindictive aloofness. That misreading of my personality might result in close friends leaving me alongside the road of life; a bit like a snake sheds its skin.
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My hands are as cold as ice, as if I stored them in the freezer overnight and just now remembered to retrieve them. If I do not stop typing right away, my fingers could shatter into a million pieces, leaving me unable to think. Sometime later…hours, days, weeks, months, or more…I will return here to think with freshly-warmed phalanges. In the meantime, I will seek out a comfortable rock under which to hide.
