I spend a great deal of time engaged in daydreaming. One of a few peculiarities left over from my childhood. (A love of rhubarb and bubble baths are a couple other holdovers.)

On my daily morning commute I am a rock star belting out the next greatest, and best song that everyone wants to sing along to.

At work, I’m the next Eudora Welty, penning a celebrated American Classic.

If Ansel Adams was a girl, I would be her standing in the sand with my camera snapping away at the sinking sun.

At night, as the shadows lengthen, the light fades in the corners and I drift off to sleep, I am transported back into time and space to a medieval castle.

I’m not fantasizing about having a bigger house (that would mean more to clean and forget having a housekeeper, I would have to clean before she came, waste of time), or a sports car, or a closet full of new clothes. Material things are so mundane.

My daydreams take me to a whole different plane of existence. I’m not just somewhere else, or some when, I am someone else completely. I can fly, or work great feats of magic. I have a voice that can make angels weep, my words bring people together in perfect harmony.

I have no idea whether this means I want to totally escape from my own life or if it’s normal to pretend to be someone else, even if for only a little while.

(When you daydream, what is your fantasy?)