Every night for many, many years now - far too long for me to pinpoint the exact beginning - I have been enjoying incursions into what I call 'my escape'. A place I visit over and over, reliving one scene over and over. My happy place.

Now there's always been a mysterious stranger involved, a beach, a sunset, a fire created out of driftwood, a bottle of Kristal (hell why not) and yeah... some other stuff.

Of course, this escape of mine has evolved over the years. As I matured, so did my mysterious stranger and by default so did... the other stuff. Younger, it was about the heat, the passion, the wild ride. More recently, it has become a talking place, words exchanged, eyes melding, and an other-worldliness where romance is by far the biggest component. Seduction rather than lewd sex and word play rather than foreplay... or wordplay as foreplay?

The scene remains the same, just the characters have morphed over time to be more in tune with where I am at? This place, it has provided solace and hope and perhaps an ongoing belief that somewhere, sometime, it may manifest - for real?

Here's where complications have arisen however: On the (scientifically proven) premise that the mind cannot distinguish the real from what it is told is the real, these nightly incursions of mine have become somewhat troublesome. I am beginning to miss things I have never experienced?

Ever felt this? Missing what you've never known? Ever thought this to be crazily impossible since you cannot possibly miss something you've never had? You have to have had it first and to have enjoyed it in order to be missing it? Duh?

Is this a writer's plight? The result of an overabundant imagination and those blasted words that invade in the night? My son Dylan is matter of fact on the subject: "You can't miss what you've never known." But I argue. Throwing at very doubtful ears, my own theory: "You can so miss it because your bloody mind believes you had it!"

How's your escape? If it's anything like mine, you're screwed. My mysterious stranger grew a face suddenly - a weird mix of a Shakespearean dude named Phil and a rather rough, no-nonsense and "Don't even think about messing with me" picture from a magazine I have put up on my wall. That one was supposed to keep me grounded?

Yet escapes are not ordinarily meant to involve familiar faces or be restricted to one face! Escapes are meant as brief interludes into the mysterious... the chance incident, the opportune moment... the magic of self-creation - quite separate from the often tedious and monotonous living and sharing lives. And certainly not bloody reliving the same scenario nightly like some crazy loop you're caught up in! Willingly?

I think I am now officially in the 'too hard basket'. I think - hell I know - once you're there, it's very hard to become easy again. You can't unlearn right? Or un-be? So again - rather suddenly - my escape is feeling like no longer an escape. It has become real - in the sense that I am missing it as something tangible - and this despite making every attempt to pretend I am in total control? Lol!

The mind. Or the curse of an inquisitive mind, an imaginative mind. Moments when I crave the simplicity of those earlier escape versions, where everything was tactile, physical, and... not this version. Not this particular version where the escape from has become the escape to? Where words are interspersed with the oft ethereal sense of this being some kind of magic? Or at worst, a trick played on me by my own mind?

Oh but this version is also by far the grandest! All this perfecting over the years, all the fine-tuning... This heavenly nightly incursion is so fucking real! I can taste the salt, I can smell the pungency of nearby seaweed washed ashore, feel the heat of the fire on my skin, and hear... hear words that incite such an exquisite longing!

So I end up with a petulant "I miss you!" flung into the mix. What is that about huh? Is one of you sane enough to tell me I am crazy?

None of this probably makes any sense to most of you however. I may well be the only crazy one here who misses things they've never known and has manifested a face where faces have no place being.

Or perhaps it's the other way around and there are a lot of nodding heads? If this be a remote possibility, then do tell me: How are your escapes going? Have you firmly tethered yourselves to a single one like me or - still being on the young side - (sigh) are you playing the escape field?

Where do you go, those alone moments before sleep? And they, who maybe sleep beside you, are they aware? Are they part of the scene, rightfully your co-escapees? Or is your escape from? Like mine used to be? Like it bloody well should be!