Sometimes I can grow stupidly happy. Out of sudden, regardless of the fact that there is absolutely nothing to be acutely happy about right now if you're me. I have become so good at being happy about fantasies that it sometimes washes over reality like a wave of sunlight and long, golden strands of hair.
I am built in a way that allows fiction to completely consume me, and recently I have decided to stop considering it fiction in the classical, slightly derogatory sense - something unreal, detached from fact - because the emotions that a beautiful piece of someone's imagination sparks in me are real, chemical, and make no sense, yet exist. I watch movies and live them for weeks, if I love them. I see those movies before my inner eye non-stop, I hear lines, I see stills, I hear the music. I carry the feeling of said movies wherever I go, whatever I do. I become that feeling for a while. I don't remember when the last time was I had a crush, but I crush on books, films and songs all the time. If you look at yourself as a jigsaw in construction, the movies you see and love in an instant turn out to be pieces that you really, really needed when they came to you. They're my favourite ingredient in the life cocktail.
I am pretty sure I'd make a horrible neuroscientist. I am not sure what non-horrible I'd make. I am a fantasiser and an escapist. My sails of film strips - full of vast, far away horizons and dreamscapes and hazy takes on the real world - are bright and glistening, and volatile, and the real wind blows right through them, and I sort of un-become.