ghosthound: (Default)
I ran into someone I used to know maybe six years back today.

We talked for a bit and it didn't take long for the conversation to go down hill. I shouldn't have even bothered to have it. I took one look at her and had this dread that if I spoke to her I'd walk away irritated. I should have trusted my instincts, the magic in me that says "this isn't the best idea, man." The only problem with that is that this feeling often suggests I do things contrary to my attempt to be a largely egalitarian person.

In this case, it suggested I judge a book by its cover, so to speak.

Where she once had short, electric blue hair, rings of metal in her eyebrows and not a shred of colored clothing within fifty yards of her body, she now wore a yellow sweater, blue jeans and had a hairstyle I could only describe in my mind as "mom hair." Seeing her I immediately assumed she was not the same person I knew, had had a child and got married to the father and settled into a largely unhappy life. She probably gave up the photography, the ZINE-making, the radical politics and the feminism for Christianity and housewifery because it's what she assumed would be best for her child.

I told myself that was foolish. I scolded myself for thinking that I could assume by someone's style of clothing that they were one way or another.

I was right. I was ENTIRELY fucking right down to the last detail. When she was describing her life it was like she was badly paraphrasing the description I'd have written for it in my head. We spoke for about a half hour about her before she asked me. Again, I had a powerful urge not to say anything, excuse myself on a lie that I had other things to do and had to make haste away. Again, I ignored it. I decided to tell her about my life and how things were going.

She responded by telling me that she wasn't surprised. I'd always been an escapist, she said. I'd always be a dreamer and somebody who made up an artistic life to live so that he didn't have to face a real world life. After that we parted ways awkwardly and I didn't get angry until an hour later.

The fact is that I am an escapist in a sense. I love reading and writing my fantasy lit. I love losing myself in music. I love that I practice magic and how it reminds me how mystical and eldritch the world truly is. I remind myself of these things by doing them.

The more I thought on it, the more I realized that she was right but not in the way she thought. I do intend to escape. I seek escape from the mundane of the world. My escape could take any form, violent and explosive or covert and furtive, as long as it ended with me in the world I want. This escape is me trying to distance myself from everything I hate and thrive in an environment of my own making built of the things I cherish.

I wish I could just explain that to people. Instead, I clam up and just shrug and sigh.
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ghosthound

January 2013

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