SaraWith a bitter accusation, he throws at me in his message that everything happened only in my fantasy. He speaks of illusions, of false expectations, of disappointments and unresolved issues. But isn’t fantasy something wonderful? When, I wonder, did it fall into such disrepute that it could now serve as an insult? Despite his anger, I find it difficult not to regard this as a compliment. Isn’t fantasy the source of all the love we feel? Does it not share the same root as faith, care, hope, and the longing for the self? Is it not the ground of the things we strive for, the place where we harbour our dreams? Does it not fill the space between times? Is this not where the entire joy of freedom resides?
Today I write love letters to my fantasy. To that force which allows me to soar across the chasms of rational clarity, beyond the rough cliffs of reality. The one that brought me to you, to your island, into the night in which we created stories together, in which we created ourselves. Through our interwoven fantasies, our connection took on a life of its own. All the colours that flooded through our bodies, the tastes that washed back into us, the palpable rhythm. Where were you, where was I – what was real and what was just fantasy? Doesn’t fantasy possess precisely the kind of soul that escapes every logic? Is it not only fully unfolded when the boundaries begin to blur? When it extends its hand to faith, hope, and healing? I love my fantasy! And you within it too – always.
Is not every game we play a dance of fantasies? Do we not believe in an island, a small, secret world created solely through our fantasy, far removed from right and wrong, via con te? Isn’t fantasy the invisible thread that holds together all the structures and constructions of our lives, that grants us stability precisely when reality begins to falter? In my fantasy, we were stronger than any tangible truth. Within it lies the seed of all creation, of our attraction and intensity, of the force of our experiences. Isn’t the real conflict between us a conflict over the loss of our fantasies? Are we not defending our right to our own dreams, our own truths? Are we not wounded because we cannot detach ourselves from them?
The feelings we shared were an ocean of wishes, needs, past wounds, and experiences. What we felt with complete conviction, far removed from conventions – a celebration of fantasy! Your erotic inner images were enough for you to experience my body, without touch, without words, without space and time.
Is it not the case that in the gap, in the chasm between your fantasy and mine, the question of guilt and of being right arises? Two players interfering in something of which they know nothing? Through my fantasy, I fill my backpack with memories. Sometimes I sit down, open it, and revel in the narratives, savour the moments that make up my life, and feel myself – or is that only my fantasy? Who knows whether my fantasy today is still the same as it was then, when it inhabited that exact situation? The colours may be different, the scent may have changed, yet it remains complete and limitless.
Here, precisely here, in my fantasy, I want my ego to be at home. I hope it finds its place. I believe that in the loving embrace of imagination, my ego can be free, unfold, dream, and create, unconfined by the limitations of reality. There, it can be safe, loved, and understood in all its complexity and depth. Perhaps fantasy is the only place in which the ego can simply be, where it can assume its true form, undisturbed and uncensored. Here, it has the freedom to create its own truth and to express every facet of its being. While sharp awareness paralyses the ego, even seeks to lock it away, perhaps this is the place where it may be at its most honest and vulnerable – and at the same time the safest harbour from which to explore one’s own scars. Is that not a wonderful thought? The fragile, anxious ego partnered with the powerful fantasy? I feel vitality here!
I thank my fantasy. I want to follow the light and feel the shadows, disappointment as much as hope, love as much as grief. For what I create in my fantasy is beautiful and worth every single moment. And so I keep fantasizing, keep dreaming of everything that may still come, of what was, and of what will never be. Call me naive and gullible. I fantasize nonetheless and keep dreaming, believing that it is beautyful!
An Ode to Fantasy – to the bridge between us, to the space we shared, to the worlds we created. To the love that is born in imagination, and to the freedom to go on living it, even when reality has long since taken its leave.
