Wednesday, May 20


For lots of people escapism comes in many forms, through drink, a social occasion, a TV programme, a sport, a hobby, whatever. But for me escapism has always been as easy as retreating into my own head. Even better, I can do it anywhere: on the bus, in a boring meeting, at the supermarket. I can happily let my mind wander off for hours.

As an only child for years, who lived in the middle of nowhere, my imagination provided all the friends and entertainment I needed. When I had nothing new to read I'd make up own stories: sometimes brand new, sometimes sequels to stories I'd read.

Even when I was too young to realise what I was into, my stories had a distinct theme. The early ones had no CP in them, but lots of rules and people being very disappointed in you if you let them down. Playing my fictional characters in my head I often felt ashamed and sorrowful. Sometimes I'd make myself feel so bad that I'd cry. Even then, I craved that feeling of desolation.

It wasn't until much older that I started introducing punishment into these fantasises, and it wasn't always me being punished. I was just thrilled by the whole idea of discipline and punishment.

Now I'm lucky enough that my escapism extends to acting out these fantasies: being brought to the point of desolation for real, getting punished for real. But sometimes my own head is still my favorite place to be and I know whatever else happens in this scene I can always retreat there: infinite escapism.

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