To one on behalf of whom visits other planets for the planets reside in their backyard:
It just occurred to me that, although I have never had a passport (I’m 30 years old) and although I have had numerous occasions to leave the country–Mexico, Canada and Europe–although it is common for me to hear people say, “You’ve got to get out of the country; explore other cultures and other places. It’s really like nothing you’ve ever experienced,” I have never felt more content with having gone no further than Minnesota. “How can you say you’ve lived if you’ve never left the country?” “Dude, there’s so much to see. You’d better live life to fullest or else time will pass you by; your life wasted.” I smirk and scoff. Here, observe.
Hast thou ever been to Quera? Hast thou gazed upon the dessert plane to the south where the ripples of the winded sands make marble effigies seem like finger paintings; the very glory of creation evinced in pulchritude against failed credit to such link’n logs in the real world lacking in the mere creation of common man-made architecture? What about Lithandire: a roaring countryside of totally untamed land rippled by the standing stones of ancient temple paragons epochs old which make Stonehenge worth to be a child’s bath time toy? I do not suppose thou hast taketh thy family to the realm of the Valley of the Angels: a temple of rustic beauty in the north as old as the earth itself yet supernaturally preserved by forces of enigmatic effect; allowing that, for those who traverse its sacrosanct platforms of surpassingly holy grounds, the very energy of ethereal power resonates like mist from a lake in the transitioning phase between Autumn and Winter. To the south lies Palace: indeed, a noun made proper for it being a manifold archetype which so designates its name causing the Dome of the Rock to be but a shack. Hast thou seen it? These places, given premeditated thought and not upon the spur of the moment I assure thee, lie merely a stones throw from where I now reside. I created them. They exist in my mind and I enjoy traveling to them and exploring the woods, fields, caves and distant rivers and lakes as often as I lie down for sleep. I suppose that, on special occasions, I take myself to avenues of exploration far more distant than merely Quera, Lithandire or The Valley of the Angels. There is always Creacia. Hast thou come upon my book put into print: The Rudimentum Series: Aeon Eternal. I urge thee, to the one in whom enjoys leaving their current plane of existence–dull, predictable and monotonous–that thou mayeth take pleasure in a world which makes a galaxy far, far away seem like driving to the market for a loaf of butter-milk. Still, even Creacia fails to encapsulate where I enjoy taking elongated journeys abroad.
Ah, that planet is so far away and it saddens me that I have neglected to visit it as often as I would like. Alas, I keep forgetting its name. I shall have to re-read the ancient tomes within my library that I may at least catch the fabled rumor for which that planet is so named. I pray its leader and I are still on good terms. I fear my time here on earth has occupied my attention for more exclusively than that for which my social health for other friends I have on other worlds has verily given. I miss Jude: a typical hand-servant to the prime minister of that planet… okay *shakes head and comes back to reality* I think thou dost achieve desired point.
I see people and then I converse with them. I generate images (sometimes based off of individuals I know). I articulate a landscape centered on where I would like to go for the night, for the day or, having happened on more occasions than what gives my heart any ease, whilst driving. Truly, just today, I was strolling upon the paradise of Naboo (Star Wars anyone). Yes, I frequent places created by other people: Middle Earth, more specifically Gondor, is common; Narnia (duh). There is also Crystal Tokyo (extremely long and incredibly discombobulating story; makes a one million piece puzzle seem like a four-piece jigsaw puzzle. Oh… but turn-of-the twelfth century Europe is one of my favorites. I smell the scents of incense, the taste of the foods, the spray of the ocean during a voyage across the Sic Immortalis Sea and past the Channel of Serenity, hopefully outside of the eve of winter when, despite the water’s dormant state is prone, in that season, for at least one hurricane; no more than three. Yet summer causes the food to go bad too soon. Ah, the pros and the cons.
Nebulae are my backyard. Quasars and pulsars are like hearing the regular caw of a crow or the chirp of a cricket. Did I mention that soundtracks to various scenarios given the circumstances of myself and others (unless my mind perceives it in the third person) are made manifest to add theatrics?
No, no, I am not showing off. I am not boasting and I am not trying to engender envy or ridicule. I am not one who makes a stink about the infinity to which my mind is arguably cursed to create. Alas, truly, every night, as my consciousness metamorphosizes into my subconscious, I loose sleep because I am awoken by a sound, a clash or, on one occasion, a roar. Blood to shards of glass and my heart pumping battery acid, I turn on my bedside light and come to grips with the possibility that what I heard–or saw–was merely a figment of my imagination… or not? I was recently so mortified by the sight of what looked like a spectral white apparition that I lied catatonic for nearly five minutes. The history behind these fears lies in what I once believed to be actual flesh-rending demons lying in wait to literally eat me: my flesh, my blood and my bones. Although I albeit consciously know for certain that the world around my wakeful self is real, and that I endeavor to be apart of it as any normal person, falling asleep is always a challenge. I lie at a disadvantage to what took over twelve years to establish: that I was (am?) psychotic and the things in my imagined world are not in any way real. I often really miss talking with them….
-The Giver of Words.