I think the Biggest Tragedy of all is to begin dreaming sensibly. The day that happens to me, I'll shut shop and prepare to die. That would mark the end of any kind of living for me. It's is my fine-tuned illogic that keeps me afloat on bad days.
As a child I'd lie on the floor with my best friend and we'd stare at her high ceilings and puzzlingly Victorian decor while talking about all the things we'd do, ten years from then. This year is ten years from then and we've both been places we'd never imagined and had experiences that would require a house with much higher ceilings to be contained.
Whenever I feel like I'm in danger of getting real, my mind goes running to retrieve that memory. Cold hard floor. Lying on it, palms folded behind my head, talking crazy. There may have been a Mariah Carey CD playing but then that's what selective memory is for.