Masochistic fantasy.

Sometimes we love our unfulfilled dreams so much that we never go out to fulfill them. We sulk with others about the myriad of obstacles that barricade us from taking the next step. In truth, we are more in love with our comfort and fantasy than our overt dissatisfaction would let known. It is a kind of masochism. We become a closeted singer who never sings in public, a painter who only dreams of the possibilities of painting. The fantasy of the future is enough to feed our ego; a promise of undiscovered talents that tells others "I am actually better than I am today, just that society is stopping me." That promise elicits social empathy, a kind of attention that replaces true recognition that comes from self-actualization, -love, and -trust. When there is an obvious chance of walking forward, we may deny and doubt the open path with a passion. No, thank you, we respond. We want our dreams to remain unfulfilled because the prospect of trying just to meet failure is more heartbreaking, more identity-damaging than to complain about a fantasy unrealized. Perhaps we forget that a dream is not a consummated result. Real dreams are realized in each moment we live with our heart intact, our integrity aligns.