Sometimes I marvel at the fact, almost tethering on the edge of envy, at people who live in reality. These are the ones that have a life that does not vanish like a dream. It's as if their lives are eternally renewing with each new experience they have. Even the moments they experience differ from one another, perpetually changing - evolving.

On the other end of the spectrum are the dreamers, people who like to concoct a kingdom of dreams that they so carefully wrap around themselves, in the end, these incorporeal figments of imagination and fantasy collapse without a trace or sound, leaving in their wake an air of despondency. But there are moments that give way to new dreams, stoking your imagination, giving you hope like a sliver of sunlight glistening through thick clouds on a gloomy winter day.

Although I bask in the dull, prosaic daily life as it gives me a sense of inexplicable security, there are days when I long for the big outdoors. Such days make me realize that everything is not a fragment of my imagination, that it's not a mirage but real and tangible. As I set foot on the marshy ground punctuated by stunted, fawn-coloured grass, I feel my breathing becoming labored. As I walk towards the distant vista, drawing me in with its plaintive voice that harbored hope, albeit a remote one, I feel my spirit tremble with ecstasy. It is the kind of happiness you experience as a school kid when you steal apples from orchards on your way back home, the kind of lull you shift into on a hot summer's day.

I lose track of time, as if one minute spent there has turned into eternity, as if everything has come to a grand halt. You see, these are the moments that I feel make you outgrow yourself, breaking the principles you held into smithereens, and so with each fragment, you can build a new life.

As absurd as it sounds, I have a safe place inside my head where I keep all these moments intact. I add all the necessary details, making it as exhaustive as possible. And when I am back in my familiar environment, my spirit sluggish, weary, and utterly wretched, I rake through my treasure of memories, spending hours examining them and adding more details along the way. This sole activity helps rekindle the warmth in my heart that has grown cold and dimmed by the cobwebs of frenzied thoughts, like soot sticking to a grimy wall.