‘Reality is something you rise above,’ Liza Minelly once said. 

When I was younger, I spent my time trying to escape reality, chasing fantasies; 

a reconstructed alternative universe offered by arts.  The representation of reality always seemed more desirable and exciting than the real version of reality; even the most abject suffering glittered with enviable hip credibility.  

My reality was something that had to be endured with props, here and now was never where I wanted to be, but the world was endless with possibilities. 

One of the painful consequences of growing up is becoming more realistic. 

It’s similar to the devout losing her faith.  Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny were just thought-up childish nonsense and I'm not going to become rich and famous afterall.  Where does that leave us?  

Now that I’m grown, I find myself trying to create a reality that I’m happy to exist in.  

I guess I realised the usefulness of the practical approach, the only way to actually realize dreams.  But at times I feel the price I paid for growing up was surrendering my soul to reality and therefore neglecting my dreams, as if imagination must be stunted and the existence of fairytales denied in order to function in the real world.

Sometimes I forget to explore and indulge in those creative avenues that still give me so much pleasure and enhance my reality.  

I should follow my daughter's lead, for whom even salt and pepper sachets come to life and start having conversations with each other.