Stories and dreams

I'm losing the grip on reality. It's an eery feeling that I can't shake off. I constantly read about other worlds, placing myself into those magical stories. I'm wearing them like a second skin around me, dreaming, wishing so hard as to bend the walls of everyday existence. Escaping any company, any distraction, confined in my body but not imprisoned by its limits, I weave a net of insanity with my thoughts. I start to understand why I never wanted to be alone. Eventhough I loathed invasions on my privacy, I'd do nothing to prevent them. Now I see why. I see why I chose the life I'm living now, the men I'm with, my destiny. Because I can't escape the power of my imagination by myself. I need iron restraints to keep my feet on the ground. The soothing pressure of a strong arm around my waist, the intellectual challenge of doing research, the fear of being ridiculed by the ones I hold dear. Without all those, I slip into a self inflicted scizophrenia. Because life is never as interesting as what the mind is capable of producing. And passion, almost materialized by unsatisfied desires, pushes me to the edge. One more month, and I'd be lost forever...
Well, I only have one more week, to be in this state. Then I'll be back to the city again, to the crowds, friends and family, and I'll behave. My mind will be too busy reading the minds of others, planing my steps, avoiding confrontations, enjoying conversations. And when I'm back to my little house, the dreams will be gone.
What if I had a chance? What if I didn't fear about anyone missing me, anyone being upset, and let go of reality? What if I could slip into a coma, doing nothing but sleeping, dreaming? Well, it would be easy, no? In dreams everything turns out just right, in our thoughts we are the most beautiful, the most desired, the most succesful. It's a lot easier than to work for it. One might as well work for a whole lifetime, achieving nothing but a flimsy wreath of flowers at the funeral. Youth is temporary, so is strength and fulfillment. One you lose, and there is no going back, the others come and go as they please. I'm not strong. My will is weak, resisting temptations is not an art that I could master. And then there is him. All my speeches of emancipation are worthless. I miss him, not just the way one misses a lover, I miss him as I miss firm ground beneath my feet. The only thing that binds me to mundane truth, against the seduction of living in a limbo of suspended life, comatose, in my dreams. That's why I love him, among other things, while I am incapable of loving anything/anyone else.
I wonder what his reasons are though...