Fantasy as a Quiet Place of Escape

　I don't remember when it started, but somewhere in my heart, I began to truly wish to live inside a story.

　When I rest my elbows on the desk and cast my eyes down at the page I'm reading, the world softens just a little. The wind shaking the treetops outside the window, someone sneezing in the next room—everything begins to fade away.
　I quietly begin to breathe in a different air. In that place, an old wizard writes with a silver quill, and a voiceless dragon sleeps curled up beside a wounded girl.
　There is a silence undisturbed by anyone, where gentle, fragile things are given names and allowed to exist.

“That’s escapism.”

　I have been told that before. In a tone that held a hint of a smile.
The rules of adulthood whisper that reality is something you must face head-on, and that running away is a sign of weakness.

　But I just wanted to breathe.
　Every time my heart beat, I wanted there to be a small, hidden gap somewhere in the world.
　There was no such gap in the white walls of the classroom, in the smell of alcohol and the sound of copiers at work, or among the people holding their breath while repeating the same motions.

　Fantasy, perhaps, possesses the power to find those gaps directly.
　For example, in one book I cherish, there is a clone of a mystery writer who lives on the library shelves. The author who wrote this work was 84 at the time of publication. The library is a mysterious space. There, when you turn the pages of a book, memories of the past rise up like bubbles and gently stroke the reader's cheek. In a place where no one can find them, the reader and the story quietly join fingertips.

　Reality is certainly harsh. Once you open the door, deadlines, responsibilities, and decisions about what to prioritize are waiting for you. But fantasy doesn't ask.
It doesn't press you with questions like, “Why are you here?” or “Is this truly valuable?”
　It simply accepts you, quietly letting you know that it’s okay to be there.

　I don't think of that as escapism.
Rather, for me, fantasy has been like a respirator that barely keeps my heart connected. If I am exposed to reality too vividly, I break easily.
　That is why I have been saved by transparent dragons, quiet wizards, princes living on stars, and mystery writers dwelling in libraries.

　When someone calls my name within a story, I finally feel like I can become someone. Even if just for a moment, I, who was transparent in reality, can become a being with meaning.

　When I close the book and return to reality, a little bit of warmth always remains in my palms.
　It is the warmth of someone’s hand I touched within the story. And so, I go on living quietly once more.
　Telling myself that I didn't run away, but simply went on a journey and have now returned.

　Fantasy is always there.
　In a place no one else can see, it waits for me, as if gathering up my broken heart.

　I am setting out on a journey of “escapism” once again.
　Which is to say, I am going to write fantasy.

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