I’m diving into the deep end of the ways fantasy acts as a map for the shape we want reality to take. Why is it that when it comes to owning our fantasies—putting them up on the mantel for all to see—we take a leaping, headfirst dive straight under the covers?
I hypothesize that we’re too selfless. We’ve been trained to think of the other: to care for them, empathize with them, anticipate their needs. In the process, we’ve eroded the edge that tells us where we end, and someone else begins.
Love, Jaclynn
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