It's as distressing as it is awe-inspiring. On the one hand, the world my subconscious mind has created is undeniably magnificent, full of the most lavish collection of beautiful places, incredible things, and wonderful creatures. My inventiveness is neverending, my imagination bewildering, my sheer creative energy immense. I am a genius. A god. Perhaps THE God.
On the other hand, despite the luxurious fixtures and fittings in the virtual home of my imagination, I am alone. Despite the fantastic and limitless distractions at my disposal, only I am real. Only I have the potential to be of some worth, and yet I am imprisoned, perhaps perpetually, in a fantasy of my own creation.
It's pointless expressing this idea, particularly in a 'public forum' such as this. But then it does pass the time. And perhaps that's the only point there is.