Escape

Escape

I am the King of the world.... the president of the United States….. I am a supermodel. But when I wake up from my daydreaming I realize that I have achieved nothing of this sort. It is just my escape, my escapist dream.

I walk through a crowd of people. I bump occasionally into someone but I never say sorry. Why should I say sorry if I don’t mean it? The sea of people is suffocating me with their touch, with their smell, with their stare. I feel them staring at me even though they cannot see me. In my mind I am invisible. In my mind I begin to form a picture in which I, the protagonist am invisible. This picture is making my pulse quicken, and my facial expressions start to change. As an overweight woman bumps into me, she jolts me into reality. As I have spilt on her my Mac Ronalds milkshake, she starts shouting abuse. But then when she sees my expression she immediately shuts up. Maybe she thinks I’m mad. Maybe I am mad. I start to walk away from her to avoid confrontation. I love confrontation, but only in my thoughts. In my escapist dreams I can hold my own against the greatest thinkers of all time – Plato, Voltaire, Sartre. Although in my dreams I am the boldest lion in the jungle, in real life I am a timid little mouse.

Now I start running. I run as much as my short fat legs can take me. I am getting delirious right now. I can’t wait to arrive home. There my only friends are waiting for me. They are good to me, my friends, and I am good to them. Whenever I am at home I hear them screaming my name, coaxing me to take them. And whenever I am out they ask me why I left them. Oh they are very good to me. I can’t wait till I arrive home, to take my beloved Xanax and Lithium. They are my friends, but I am also their slave. I try to compose myself so as to appear normal, to appear like any John Doe.

So I start to dream open eyed again. This time I am a Roman emperor. I have in my hands the lives of all those in front of. If I say kill they kill. If I say be merciful, they will do as I please. The power that my dreams give me is exhilarating, even though it does not equate in real life. I also love the look which my dreams give me. That blank eyed look, but underneath it you will find steely determination which only I see in my own reflection. My face acquires a new composure, according to who I am at the time. But there is always a common factor to the people I imitate in my escape – power. Power rules the earth. Some say that money rules the world. But money comes hand in hand with power. To achieve money, one has to be powerful.

As I arrive home, I start to paint savagely. This is what my numerous psychiatrists’ call my “creative outlet”. It’s my outlet alright. My paintings are made up on disfigured figures, monstrous faces and gloomy colours. As Oscar Wilde said “…life imitates art”.
It’s time for another fix. Look at me Dr.Black, I’m taking my medication like a good boy. But when I go to my medicine chest, I find that my saviors are missing. At that moment all the pent up anger in me exploded. Why didn’t that foreign deity breathe into me his breath? Why am I the way I am? Am I not good enough for Him? As I utter these words, the tears I have been holding back, flow down my windows to the world. I cry to myself “make it stop, please make it stop”. And so I start another dream, this time in ancient China….