I’m a fantasist.
Not in a Walter Mitty way.
Or a slaying Orcs by the hundred, then ridden back to the Crystal Castle Of Aragoon to bed dozens of buxom elvish wenches as I laugh richly, quaffing ale way. [That is a surprisingly well fleshed out non-fantasy there Nick - Ed.]
I’m one of those annoying fantasists who fantasises about stuff juuuuust out of reach. Stuff that’s possible, but hard. Hard is important. God I hate my psyche.
What you fantasise about is what you truly desire. What you crave. What must be sated (heavy moral caveats here).
So why not fantasise about nearly stuff, not never stuff?
I wanted to make jackets. I actually fantasised about it. My own business too. And winning the Tour de France…. Oh.
It's like the artist could see into my mind.
Humans are pretty basic. When we need protein, we crave meat. Thirsty? Water. Stressed? 3 pints.
I’m a heavy sleeper and I fall asleep quickly. I think one of the ways I can access this lucky gift is to start fantasising at least 15 minutes before going to bed. It drives my wife nuts - I’m impossible to talk to. I’m gone. I fall asleep in a daydream - slipping, perhaps, into a real dream.
I have a recurring dream 6 nights in 10. It is safe for work.
I’m in Norway. Norway is my spirit country.
Alone in a tiny wooden hut on a mountain, surrounded by forests, mists and a lake.
All there is is a fire, a book, hot coffee (Islay Malt supplement available) and a bike. I’m really not comfortable without a bike, consciously or unconsciously.
Importantly, it is raining hard on the thin roof, hammering down as I sit under my canopy, starring out over the valley below.
My favourite sound is rain. Rain is incredibly comforting and cosy.
Nothing happens. NOTHING.
I have had this fantasy literally a thousand times over the last 5 years.
What can we take from this? All pretty obvious stuff:
- He is batshit.
- Craves solitude.
- Craves the outdoors.
- Really likes Norway.
- And rain. Idiot.
Thus, the assumption is I think I’m too busy (self inflicted - again, idiot), over stimulated and under-rained-upon.
We crave what we need. Our fantasies are our cravings.
I like that my fantasies are just out of reach. This is the font of ambition. My strongest fantasy when I was a teenager was…well, yes, there was that, obviously, errr….
My strongest fantasy apart from that FILTH was to be with someone forever. To be in love. Being a moody pessimistic teen, I remember very clearly not thinking that was remotely possible. Ever. I was a REALLY moody teenager.
I tried anyway. Much too hard. Scared the life out of early girlfriends with my intensity. But one Summer’s day in 1996 I gave up trying, met my wife and we’ve been together since... I wouldn't take the moral of the story as giving up... Where was I?
Oh yea. I am very lucky to have that. I praise physics and chance for bringing her to me. What this unexpected success did though was feed my appetite for fantasy as a tool.
Fantasies are GOALS.
Find a fantasy. Design it thoroughly. Build it. Then, make it happen. Slowly, year by year, crawling through the mud by your fingertips.
In the process you’ll get to a reality you didn’t plan for, but you had a guiding light. You will be in a better place. Closer.
You are what you think. I think myself thinner, I am thi…Oh bugger. Not that example.
I’m no self help guru but dreams are indeed windows into our souls. Don’t ignore them. Chase them. They’re your lighthouse, especially when the seas get choppy. They’re your anchor.
Christ I butchered that metaphor.
P.S: Here’s my pure unreachable fantasy. Flying around the Earth in orbit, starring at the stars. Do watch First Man - good for unrealistic fantasies. We need those too.