Every world you have created for yourself has one thing in common, the creator. When you tell me you are not into Art, I smile at the irony. Oh, of course you are. Oh honey, you create so much.
Has it ever occurred to you that your mind makes worlds from dew drops and soap bubbles and chimney smoke and you believe in them? You look at a beautiful tree, and you escape to the spiral wilderness of an ever-growing forest. You look at a car and something tinkles within you. You take a solo trip to Africa and back right then. You look at a watch and you travel back and forth in time to make things right. You stay there. They call your name and you come back. But they don't see life in your eyes, you seek hope elsewhere. You look at things and you never see them. You see other worlds. You see time and dreams and they see you. You make them. You smile to yourself over a cup of coffee and read a torn page of an old, abandoned book and you don't complain. You toss a coin thousand and forty eight times and you don't decide for your life. You look out of a window and it's magical, because the building could only have your body. Your mind is a mischievous runaway child from third grade.