telling myself pretty little stories

There is a place.  You have to wait for the right fog. The kind of magic mist that takes the city away in sound and sight and leaves you in a forest alone.  Then you turn to the left, a step and a half, just there, between those two spots, you slip through and away.
Over there, I am home.  It's where I belong.  There is a village by the woods and the hearths are stone and the houses warm and the food local. People share the burden of survival.  I have a big wooden chair by the hearth where I sit and spin yarn. Someone brings me more wool or when it's dinner, a meal, and I spin yarn. Someone else hauls away the yarn to the dyers.  We all work together. The house is never silent whether it's people talking or making music or the pets dominating the audio while the healthy folks are doing the bigger chores. But then there's always a few kids to watch too.
People think I don't like kids. I  let them. I don't know them here anymore, they're not real kids in the real world.  They aren't socialized or self disciplined or participatory or respectful or creative or anything as far as I can tell.  Just cossetted or abused or neglected.  I don't doubt there are some left being raised as sane humans but I think they are few and far between. 
In this other place, I can get up and go check out the yarn colors after they dry and if I feel like it, use a loom or some needles and make something up and put it in the hut where we leave finished goods for use. Because we don't trade at all. We just share.  If I want a scarf, I don't leave it in the hut. I keep it. Nobody worries about it because we all pull together.
That is where I want to go if there's anthing of "I" that is real. That is where I feel a memory or a fantasy, who cares?  That's what I always thought I would find one day, a place where I could sit and get good at something and be welcome and not be bothered by the narcissist agenda. 
Yeah, I guess that's my heaven? 
Look, if there's anything more than meatbags and science dissecting particles then why am I here?  No, why am I still suffering?  Why would I sign up for this? Anyone?  Any animal would have gone off it's food a lot sooner if they felt the way I have.
It was the fire of getting strong enough to ditch Dan that kept me going after the surgery.  I was believing in magic and that through this magic I would finally be free of this nasty person who has wrought me such grief for so long.  It's like he's my own personal demon sent to torture me.  I was trying to tell the hotline operator how he used to keep me from resting or sleeping day and day out, interrupting me or starting an argument and she seemed to lose all sympathy when she heard I wasn't physically endangered.  Like the mental torture is a sign of weakness or unworthiness in me that I am susceptible to it or cannot rise past it?  Or what?
I got that back in 2017 and 2018 and 2019 when I was trying to leverage my cancer patient connections and relative respectability to get help to escape a marriage I had been ready to suicide out of way back in 2010. 14 years, then, I've been seeking help or a solution and being told I don't deserve it.
Okay?
It'll be a spring mist.  Birdsong and flowers and the sounds will follow me through because over there, the land is still healthy and green and good.  Trees drop food and animals live long live before they are meat and we don't center meat, it's a thing we supplement from the old or disabled animals we've taken. We find room for anyone who can thrive with some support.  Animals too.  Only the ones who can't are food. the people who can't? I guess they die well loved and well supported and sung to. Don't they? With opium or similar medicines to ease their journey. 
Are humans capable of this? 
It makes a nice story anyway.

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