I spend a lot of time inside my head. I try to pay attention to things, and usually I'm pretty good at it; I follow along when people talk and do my job and do not wander into traffic or get lost. But even when I'm paying attention to what's going on outside of me, part of me is somewhere else.
Sometimes I confuse what I only wanted or imagined or was afraid of in my head with what happened in "real life." Too often, I hear myself say to someone, "Didn't I tell you that?" because I thought I did, but really I only did so in my head.
Sometimes in my head I remember or imagine a long, impossible, impossibly detailed important conversation. I imagine it almost perfectly. I imagine it down to how you move your hands.
Sometimes I go over the same thing in my head so much that the only way to stop me is to change the real-life circumstance of me. If I can't get away, I go to the gym or out for a walk or do some physical labor. If I can get away, I go on a trip.
Last week, I went to Paris.
This is from Paris France by Gertrude Stein.
After all everybody, that is, everybody who writes is interested in living inside themselves in order to tell what is inside themselves. That is why writers have to have two countries, the one where they belong and the one in which they live really. The second one is romantic, it is separate from themselves, it is not real but it is really there.