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i don’t often associate writing with escapism. i typically describe writing as a means for my subconscious mind to process thoughts and feelings into concrete form. fiction or nonfiction, writing helps crystalize that which has no explicit form other than through zaps of electrical synapses. like any form of information, there needs to be a substrate; writing transfers info from brain to world.
that conception of writing’s been modified for me in recent days. yes, there’s still the undying itch to convey thought, but it also feels good to write. it isn’t always obvious to me that writing isn’t a biological imperative. it’s a passion. a hobby. a desire. i love to write. it’s the one skill i’ve never stopped cultivating. it’s the one skill i always want to have. it’s the one skill no one can take from me, and i don’t need any technology to do. if i were stranded on an island with nothing, i could write poetry in the sand until the wind carries it away.
does enjoyment automatically imply escapism? fun cannot exist without un-fun, or less fun? i suppose it’s like comparing binary computer code with quantum computing. zeroes and ones versus infinite states between zero and one. i write to kill time, and to fully enjoy time. i write to extend today, and to forget about tomorrow. i write to hide from the outside, and to recreate the world in my image.
wanderlust is simply the desire to travel. a better word for what i’m doing is abdicating. to indulge in my own fantasies is to abandon external pressures for a while. and it’s a necessary thing to do once in a while, forgetting my duties to the human race, because i cannot finish the race if i don’t stop to taste a drop of rain.