Where Fantasy Ends and Delusion Begins

My first apartment in Germany was wrapped in freshly painted, blindingly white walls. That color — so painfully neutral — only came alive when touched by sunlight, but if I was lucky, my room received maybe thirty minutes of sun each day. Once the light disappeared, a deep, bluish shadow would settle in. By night, the darkness was so intense it made me dizzy.

Sometimes, I’d lie in bed staring at the small window to my left, wondering if that fairy from a picture book I once read would appear and scatter gold dust, whisking me away to another dimension.
I needed that silly, sweet fantasy — because otherwise, I couldn’t fall asleep.

Even at the edge of despair, a flower bloomed. And sometimes, I even savored the despair and the defeat. Like a line from a film, I believed I was someone who deserved to suffer. So I chose to love the pain.

In truth, it had long been a quiet romanticism of mine.
Ever since I started reading, I had secretly dreamed of becoming a lighthouse keeper.
The violent winds and crashing waves, the suffocating summers and winters that froze your fingertips.
The unchanging monotomy of each day.
And then, the trembling thrill of spotting a lost ship at sea.

Inside that imaginary lighthouse, I hoped to chase the answer to life.

In some ways, I’ve lived my entire life in fantasy. Always treasuring the unseen, longing for the unreadable, trying to fill my life with those things and erase reality.
Delusions are addictive, almost like alcohol, so perhaps it’s no surprise.
Just a quiet sadness.