Once I aged out of my playing days, I transferred my imagination to paper\/word document. More than that\u2014and I\u2019m sure every writer can relate to this\u2014I continued to make stories up simply in my head. Some stories were original creations, some were fanfictions of what I wished would\u2019ve happened in that TV show I just watched, and some were just daydreams. Detailed, exciting daydreams.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes I worry about my daydreams, mainly because I just worry about everything. The worry stems from questions of is there such a thing as too much daydreaming? And if so, how much is too much? Mostly, though, I love my daydreams. How could I not? They\u2019re the ultimate fidget toy. I could go to my imagination anywhere, anytime and can conjure up whatever my heart desires. It\u2019s just like playing with Barbies, but discretely and without judgement from joyless adults who think that once you wear a bra you should stop buying dolls.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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Another often ignored or forgotten benefit of daydreams, not just mine, is the way they are able to tell you about yourself. Like I said, my daydreams are what my heart desires, so what I make up must be what I want. At least, it must partially be that way. I think daydreams could also serve as space to consider possibilities. When you\u2019re preparing for a difficult conversation and are imagining all the different ways it could go down, that\u2019s a daydream, isn\u2019t it? Or when you\u2019re deciding what career you want and you picture yourself living out each option, that\u2019s daydreaming. Another thing daydreams provide is an examination of your subconscious. Think of all the minor details of a daydream. The time of day. The temperature. The clothes you\u2019re wearing. If you\u2019re anything like me, you don\u2019t pay much attention to that stuff unless the daydream is all about, I don\u2019t know, you wearing a ballgown in -10 degrees weather at midnight. Stuff like that may not matter, but your brain still put them there. Why?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The daydreams I remember come from my middle school years and up. There\u2019s a lot of running themes throughout all of my daydreams\u2014mostly concerning identity, love, and general happiness\u2014none of which surprise me. For instance, in my long-term daydreams where I imagine what my life could plausibly look like in the future, I\u2019m always a writer of sorts. That aspect of the daydream doesn\u2019t shock me because I remember adding it in. There\u2019s some stuff, though, that keeps popping up and I never really noticed that they were until I suddenly did. Somewhat recently, I realized that none of my daydreams go past my twenties.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What\u2019s up with that? When I was twelve, twenty seemed ages away, so maybe thinking past that decade seemed too excessive. Twenty was far enough, why go farther? But then I got older. What used to be eight years away became four became one became three months ago. I still don\u2019t imagine my thirties.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I like to make sense of things. It\u2019s partly why I did this whole blog thing in the first place. I like to find meaning in places that don\u2019t seem to have any at first glance. I like to logic my way out of holes, and I label phenomenons that are only really phenomenons because I said so. I apply narrative structure to real life and I constantly see real life within narratives. Naturally, I have given my discovery of my avoidance to the +30 years within my daydreams a name. I call it my fear of 24.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was no real age where my daydreams suddenly just stopped. To be honest, some of my daydreams did leak into my thirties, but if I were to plot all my daydreams on graph where one of the axes were my age in the dream\u2014don\u2019t ask me what the other axis is\u2014then no doubt there would be a big cluster in my early twenties. I needed a specific number for my phenomenon, though, and 24 just felt right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Last year was one of the worst in my life. I had classic first-year college issues that came with dorming and class and such; my beloved dog, Dachi, died at 16 \u00bd years old; my brother\u2019s bearded lizard Iroh suddenly died soon after; I was on edge for months on end, fearing that I\u2019d wake up one day, or get a call, or walk into a room and someone I loved would be dead; I underwent an intense episode of my ever-ongoing identity crisis; what\u2019s-his-face was elected again; and I was nearly the loneliest I had ever been in my entire life. Nearly. Somehow, and I suppose I\u2019m grateful for this now, I\u2019d been lonelier. Sometime amidst the chaos, I realized that the date ended with 24.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I have this bracelet that my mother gave me that has \u201cYour anxiety is lying to you\u201d engraved on the inside of it. I know that\u2019s true most of the time, but I have to be honest, I often think about the implied asterisks in that phrase. I often think about, “Anxiety is meant to protect us from danger,\u201d without the, \u201cand yours is a bit sensitive,\u201d part. I think about how my anxiety lies to me except when it doesn\u2019t. So even though I know\u2014I know<\/em> that I\u2019m panicking over nothing and that this is an irrational fear, I can\u2019t help but wonder what if it isn\u2019t? What if my emotions know something I don\u2019t and are trying to protect me? And if so, protect me from what? For a bit, I thought that maybe my fear was about 2024. I tried to accept that. As outrageous as it sounded, I wanted to believe that my fear of 24 was some part of me subconsciously and inexplicably knowing that 2024 would suck for me and thus it was a way of telling me to giddy up. Irrational problems, irrational solutions. Once 2025 started and the misfortune continued to follow me well into the new year, my fear never subsided. In actuality, it strengthened. My irrational fear becomes more and more rational with every quick glance at the news.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And now I\u2019m only four years away from turning 24. Tick tock.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was a moment back in high school when I considered not going to college; this fear had a lot to do with it. If I only had until 24, I didn\u2019t want to spend my limited time at school. Now, I\u2019m happy to be in school. It serves as a nice distraction. It gives me something to do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n This summer didn\u2019t really go the way I planned it to. Well, I didn\u2019t really plan it for starters, but the ideas I had and vague goals I wanted to accomplish never came to be. At first, I was exhausted from school and needed time to recover. Then, I don\u2019t know. Whenever I could have done something productive, I just didn\u2019t do that. I knew I should\u2019ve and felt a tad guilty every time I didn\u2019t. I feel slightly regretful now, but also I just don\u2019t care. I could drop dead before the sun even sets\u2014why does it matter if I clean my room? Don\u2019t need to do laundry if I\u2019ll be a corpse soon. What good is writing when this may be the last time I stare up to the sky? Every day I didn\u2019t die, I just thought that I\u2019d do it all tomorrow. I never did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s hard being apathetic when there\u2019s not much to be pathetic about. Well, not much other than impending doom. I mean, even if I did not turn off my emotions to prevent myself from fearing for my life everyday, I wouldn\u2019t have much else to feel about. My life is at a standstill. The parts I love, I truly and deeply love, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot shake the parts that I hate. I have no reason to leave the house, or get dressed, or move at all. It\u2019s just an added bonus that I might die soon, so none of that matters anyways.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I need school to start soon. I need an excuse to start living again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Niagara Falls<\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n I want to say that this school year will be different, that I\u2019ll find something that\u2019ll make me lose my fear of 24 for good, but I\u2019m afraid to be optimistic. I\u2019m not sure how I will\u2014or if I even can\u2014handle another year that doesn\u2019t live up to my expectations. That\u2019s perhaps the biggest downside to daydreams\u2014they can make you hate your reality. Nonetheless, fear and pessimism (or is it realism?) and all, I do have some hope for the school year. Hope that, if anything, my problems will be downgraded from an existential to an academic level. Although nowadays, the two seem to be much more intertwined than I thought possible. Still, it will feel good to wear nice clothes again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When my apathy lies low enough for what I believe to be the real, passionate me to peak through, I have this inkling that the Luna Renaissance is upon us. I hear it said by the same voice that declared the Downfall and the Great Divide\u2014the Renaissance is next. It must be. Fashion will be enjoyed more. Art and literature will be more abundant. Food will regain its flavors. Colors will return to the rainbow. All that was dead will come alive again. And again, and again, and again, and again, and always.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n I think the truth is my fear of 24 is unfortunately and horrifically rooted in some rationality now. I may die in the next four years. Or I may not. I certainly plan on finding out, which means I must continue to live today and then again tomorrow. Maybe I\u2019ll keep doing this until the end of time. Maybe then I\u2019ll finally clean my room. Maybe I\u2019ll even do it today.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I think I\u2019m going to die soon. I have nothing backing that prediction other than a hunch and fears I\u2019ve had since I was twelve years old, and yet it\u2019s something that I can\u2019t help but feel to be so true. I\u2019ve always been a very imaginative person. My grandparents used to have tons of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1445,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1428","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/longstoriesshort.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1428","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/longstoriesshort.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/longstoriesshort.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/longstoriesshort.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/longstoriesshort.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1428"}],"version-history":[{"count":17,"href":"https:\/\/longstoriesshort.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1428\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1449,"href":"https:\/\/longstoriesshort.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1428\/revisions\/1449"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/longstoriesshort.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1445"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/longstoriesshort.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1428"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/longstoriesshort.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1428"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/longstoriesshort.blog\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1428"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}![\"\"](\"https:\/\/longstoriesshort.blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/rainbow.png\")
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