The biggest trouble with having an active imagination is that reality often disappoints in comparison. You don't cry when the worst happens, because you have already cried imaging it so many times that by the time it happens, it doesn't feel real - it feels like reading a novel - a sort of distant, nostalgic pain. You don't go to new places and feel exhilarated, because in your head the mountains were greener, the water bluer, the sky clearer. You never meet someone who exhausts, confuses, compounds, scars, twists, controls, connects, wounds - because you can always give them the benefit of doubt, for anything. You never get in conflict, because you can always be the victim and evictor, within a split second. You never move beyond, because in your mind you can always go back and replay, deconstruct, reconstruct, and relive. Nothing novel, nothing surprising, nothing intense. Life is boring when you are a dreamer.