The Escapists Prison

The Escapists Prison

A common observation is that people who read, write and create fiction, art, film and music often have vast imaginations and a certain vest for life that some people may consider eccentric, unrealistic or euphoric.

In the past I have already covered the connection between fiction and escapism. But I haven't really ever considered the consequences.

Pigeon-holing people is unfair and judgmental; but there are some very definitive different types of personalities and beliefs out there. There are those who make do with what is, happily. There are those who strive for more and often achieve. Then there are the escapists...well, what about them?

The escapists. I admit, I think I fall into this category quite neatly - so whatever is said here is very much my own opinion. I have met a few others who fit the profile, whether they know it or not.

The escapists. We know how to do things, and we do them well. We make impulsive movements and consequently life altering decisions on the whim that something amazing will come of it. That is, until we change our minds.

To be an escapist : to escape the humdrum reality of the "everyday", to live a life filled with passion, prollific moments and out of the ordinary experiences. To be tied down to no particular place, environment, job or person. To in all essence of the world : be "free".

In a nuttshell? To live a life that we would want to read about, watch a film about, paint a picture from, write a song for.

There's only one problem. Life, is not fiction - novels are fictitious - this is an auto biography.
By no means does life have to be boring or anything other than free and exciting, but the underlining factor with being an escapist  is the circles of indecisiveness and disappointment.

In the quest to find out exactly what our path is, or what it is that we want in this whirlwind plot - we jump and leap frog from one idea to another; in the hope of something fantastical that will knock us left, right and centre. Then we do these things..and you know, they're good..but...that's it. So then the quest continues to find this treasure that we are sure is imminently going to be at the end of the rainbow; even if it means skipping, back stepping and rolling on every other colour first. Then you find the treasure..and it's just..there...now what.

By most peoples standards - these things could be amazing, these achievements unbelievable; the escapists courage and guts are admirable to take such risks to fulfil a dream. But the thing is, is the dream ever fulfilled? Do we even know what the dream actually is?

An escapist actually lives in a prison, instead of being free.

In creating expectations for yourself without actually knowing what you want from them - you're setting yourself up for disappointment.

A wild imagination is healthy but so difficult to feed; and those of us who spend our lives feeding our imaginations find ourselves lost in the moment of  not knowing what do to with all these fire igniting ideas. That's the thing..we could do anything...but, what is it that we are supposed to do?

Are you an Escapist?

She Writes

 

She Writes - Beat Poetry/Spoken Word - * to be performed/read aloud *

She writes, she still writes.

She writes when the silence is deafeningly loud, when she has no words, no strength, no smile to show any crowd.

She still writes.

She writes when the barriers are in place, when she is the alien, is the individual, is the thinker, and losing an invisible race.

She still writes.

She writes about years gone by, about lustful love, about life, about countries far and wide, about passion intwined and the memory so vivid, she doesn't know why. 

She still writes.

She writes about deep thought, about limitless advice, about contemplation,  philosophy, a morality in innocent and guilty device.

She still writes.

She still writes when the ink colour is dull, when the pages turn backwards, when the chapters don't change, she still writes in darkness, in a lull. 

She writes even though the memory of herself is fading, is attacked, is misconstrued, is conflicted - but it is a memory worth saving.

She still writes. She still writes to sting the surrender, she still writes to continue and endeavour, she still writes to win a battle, to be herself, her light, her rattle.

So, she still writes.