Dreams are also real, our first memories our real, and fiction is real (so real!), yet we feel foreign to our ashen homeland, we feel hard, prickly, stubborn, unimaginative, meaningless, or unsalvageable, the cell where we were tossed after we sipped the dark waters of Lethe. The real—our legitimate homeland—ought to be a fabulous realm, but it is instead an oppressive prison.
