He built for himself a world. It was very real; he could reach out and touch its walls. This world was everything he had been told a world should be. He had everything he'd been told he should want.
He did not want it.
It did not feel real, despite the way he kept walking into things, knocking into the very walls he'd constructed. He looked around and wondered how everyone could be so happy.
This world he'd built was but a dream compared to the world within him, the spinning vortex of his heart, the way his spirit lifted free of his body and wandered.
But if he were to admit as much to anyone, they would surely think him insane.
And so he plodded through the "real" world, wishing always to be in this other place, the one that felt true . . .