When Fantasy become Realities

and other lies we tell ourselves…

I have always desired to live in a world of fantasy.

I remember being in my first year of primary school and trying so desperately to have an imaginary friend.

All my classmates had them, so of course I had too as well. I remember listening to the tales of their epic adventures. How they had defeated monsters underneath the stairs, met mermaids during bath time, and battled the fairy king as he attempted to destroy their tea party by eating all their biscuits.

I unfortunately, seemed unable to achieve such level of whimsy.

Try as I might, when I tried to play with an "imaginary" friend, all I got was silence and feeling very silly for talking to nothing.

So, at the tender age of five, I became very jaded on the subject of make believe.

At Christmas time argued with my mother and refused to sit on the lap of Father Christmas lap. This of course was due to me coming to the logical conclusion that he must be a bugler pedophile. Why else would an old man, who lives with hundreds of small men in solitude, want you to come and sit on his lap, then break into your house and leave a small child presents. Plus there's that whole "he sees you when you're sleeping" thing that frankly induced terrible bouts of insomnia.

And don't even get me started on the Easter Bunny.

I had come to the conclusion then that my life would be forever boring, full of beige activities, with beige people, in a beige world.

That was of course, until I met Vince Noir.

Vince didn't just play make believe, he immersed himself in a multilayer world of it. I have never met a person better at creating make believe then Vince, and I have never met a person who needed it more then him.

You see if you where to ask Vince about his childhood he would tell you...

There once was a boy who lived in the forest…

Never that there once was a boy born in southern London to a 17 year old unwed mother, who's family and friends wanted nothing to do with her.

He lived a wonderful life in a tree house made of bus tickets with Brian Ferry…

Not that his mother left him when he was four to run off with a man she had met while working at a night club. He was sent to live with his 82 year old Great Aunt who couldn't take care of the poor child.

…because Brian Ferry was so important and always on tour, Vince was then left to the care of loving forest animals…

He would never talk about how he used to believe his mother would come back for him when his Aunt had placed him in care, where he was sent to live with the Bad Man.

…Vince would laugh and play with his animals all day. Till the evil monkey king, seeing the beauty that was Vince's face, decided he wanted it for his own…

The words abuse would never escape from his mouth. Nor would his feelings of absolute terror when the Bad Man would locked in the basement alone for hours on end for doing something that he deemed naughty. He would never talk about how he would curl up upon himself with no company but the spider and his own imagination.

… The Monkey King then waiting for Vince to fall asleep so he could strike…

Or how when the Bad Man finally let out, he would pretend he saved him and stroke his hair… He wouldn't talk about how he didn't remember much after that. He wouldn't talk about the times the Bad Man had walked into his room when he was asleep…

…But Vince was too cunning to lose his beauty; when the Monkey King finally caught Vince he was able to trick him.

… He wouldn't say how he stopped talking at school. How he used to panic if he was ever left alone...

…But the rest of the story is for another time. Because everyone knows all good things come to those who wait…

Or how, a nice teacher who smelled of flowers had asked him a question after class one day.

…Unless it's fashion related because first is always best then.

He wouldn't talk about how they made him talk to a lady who said big words like "repression" and "avoidance".

He would say however he once live with a nice older women named Norma who would sing him songs at bed time, and how she let him play dress up with her clothes. He wouldn't mention how she never raised her voice let alone her hand and for the first time in a long time he felt safe in his own bed.

You see I was never able to create my own world of fantasy, but I think part of the reason is I never had too.

Because I remember meeting a six year old boy who was too quite in class and would grab my hand at the end of each day saying he never wanted to go home.

But then I remember meeting another boy a year later that grew up in the forest. He talked to animals, was always smiling, and thought that the reason people grew up was because an evil sorcerer once cased a spell over all children.

That's not to say it's been easy.

It's been thirty years and some days I still see that quite boy. He's never in full view, but I can see him peeking through the curtains of sequins and feathered hair. It's on those days I have to watch him. To make sure that he doesn't try to hide the pain underneath a painted mask. So I make sure he eats a real meal, come up with an excuse to keep him from going out, knowing he'll over do. I let him set the pace, never pushing him to talk or touch if he doesn't want to.

Some times the mask slips and I find him curled up in a ball unable to catch his breath, and it's at those times I just hold him, bringing him back to reality.

Because that's what we do for each other, he's the Yin to my Yang, the light to my dark, the bounce to my step, the rainbow to my beige; we just even each other out.

He let's me live in world of make believe and wonderment, while I keep him from floating off, holding on to his foot so he doesn't float so far he can never come back to me.

It's not easy sometime,

But love never is.