I live in two worlds now. And it’s killing me.

One world is vivid, strong, and full of joy and fun. Marvelous toys abound, new discoveries are made almost continually, and the world is full of novel delights, amusing follies, and wonders I didn’t even know existed before they were close at hand. A world which is richly engaging, highly rewarding, and fun to tinker with. A world where I can think of something I want to exist, Google it, and then discover not only does it exist, there’s several competing versions of it and a lively debate as to the merits of each. A world in which I can be a (big) kid in a (very adult) candy store. A world where I can act without worry about what people think or what the real world consequence would be because no matter how vivid or actualized it is, it’s still a video game and therefore nothing more than an interactive illusion, with less reality and substance than the shadow of smoke.

A world that I can customize to be exactly how I want it to be. A world where everything in it can be made to serve my pleasure. A world that revolves around ME and my needs and desires – every oral retentive person’s darkest dream. A world of endless mental stimulation of such an engaging and powerful form that it overwhelms all previous psychological barriers and makes me feel both all-powerful and weak, amazing and repulsive, in control and completely out of control.

A world that’s the ultimate poison paradise that diabolically tempts me – successfully – to take my escapism to a whole new level and whispers to me of finally abandoning reality altogether  – my worst nightmare – except for the bare minimum needed to survive.

A world where I am God.

That’s the world that is killing me.

The  other world, of course, is reality. The world we actually live in. The world that has limits, requires effort, calls for things like courage and sacrifice and compromise and doing things that are scary and/or hard and/or depressing. The world where things like money and work matter. The world where everything has a cost.

The world that, by its very reality, is fixed and cold and unresponsive to my mind’s extraordinary strength and power. A world of limits, scarcities, challenges  enemies, complications, overstimulations, and boundaries. A world that does not revolve around me like the other world does. A world in which I am not, in fact, God.

That’s the world I am trying desperately to cling to.

Last night was my wakeup call when I realized that due to the all-devouring compulsion of my new addiction, I had completely forgotten to do the very tiny amount of work it would have done to organize FRED for that week because that would have required leaving that other world and coming back down from my trip, and when I am in the zone, that seems laughable.

That’s why, despite what all reason and common sense, this last saw me forgetting to eat, neglecting to sleep, and turning the minimal routine I have developed to keep me moving over the years into nothing but an inconvenient memory.

But that’s not the worst thing. Not at all.

The worst thing is that, because of the way this unreal world fires my imagination, rewards my inventiveness and creativity, fits in with my deepest fantasies and lets me indulge them, and is in every way more rewarding and fun than anything I have ever done before…. it feels more real to me than reality does.

And that scares the hell out of me.

And yet, stopping is out of the question. I would have no idea what I would do with my time if I stopped. There is nothing I could do that would be even remotely as rewarding and fun and stimulating. The real world pales in comparison.

And that REALLY scares the hell out of me.

And if I can’t quit, then the next best thing would be to strike a healthy balance. To that end, I have a plan.

It starts with me resuming my routine and sticking to it religiously. That means meals at noon, six, and midnight. No matter what. It means spending social time with my friends on Tuesday, Friday, and Sunday. It means spending measured amounts of time indulging this hobby and strangling the voice of the Jagoff when he tries to convince me that I can spend a few more hours at play and thus delay that traumatic period of disengagement where I have to come down from the high of the game and the sudden drop in engagement and stimulation makes me feel like somebody just died.

Maybe it was me. I don’t know.

So here I stand, at the gates of the sort of Heaven that is also Hell. The kind of place where Satan, dressed as an angel, offers to give you everything you ever wanted, but only at the cost of your soul.

There’s a short George Bernard Shaw play where a man dies and his soul is greeted mt a perfect servant who is loyal and true and gives him whatever he likes without him having to exert the slightest bit of effort, like a genie who gives unlimited wishes.

The man indulges himself on every level, but like in a Star Trek episode, he soon becomes dissatisfied by the lack of challenge and effort in his life. Finally, he breaks down and says something like “I’m utterly miserable! What kind of Heaven is this?”

To which the servant replies, “Whoever said this was Heaven?”

My new hobby makes me feel like that, in a way.

Of course, it also reminds me of the Star Trek episode “I, Mudd”, where Spock, Kirk, Cheov, and Bones end up on a planet of robots who promise to give them everything they want except for freedom and challenge.

Kirk being Kirk, he has to put an end to THAT.

Personally, I would hang around until I had used to opportunity to really work on some serious psychological issues of mine via fantasy fulfillment.

I suppose I could claim that was what I was doing with Skyrim.

But we all know that would be bullshit. I’m really just masturbating my imagination. Etc.  And that’s no way to live – not all the time, anyhow.

Life needs more than pleasure and excitement and fun.

It also needs meaning. Worth. A sense of one’s own value.

And no video game can ever provide that.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.