Sometimes I will make a sandwich for myself, garnish it and then wrap it up and put it in the fridge. Later when I pull the sandwich from the fridge and eat it, I pretend that someone else made it for me.
Sometimes when I write I pretend I’m Jane Austen. I’m a woman who documents life, a keen and piercing observer of the world.
I’m a firm advocate of being in the here and now, and I’m pretty sure I’m not suffering from psychosis (but if anyone wants to argue otherwise, tell me!). So what is the point of all my pretending?
It’s good for me.
Pretending helps me know what my heart needs even when my head hasn’t gotten the memo.
Sometimes I need a break from my everyday life, an adventure or challenge. I dream about a relaxing getaway or exotic travels.
Sometimes I wish someone would take care of me. I need to feel like I’m not alone and doing it all for myself. I pretend some other loving body has made me a sandwich.
Sometimes I need to feel that what I do matters, that my work transcends time and space and reaches people in a way that changes them for the better.
Pretending reveals the urges of my heart. And that revelation is the first step to creating the reality that I need.