I suppose it can be categorized as a form of ‘play’. 'Escape.'
For me, the internet is a form of escape. Reaching out to people and places I would otherwise never be fortunate enough to know. Video games are another.
This is probably why Steampunk, for instance, is so popular, as are other re-enactments such as Rockabilly, Renaissance Faires, Cosplay, Historical/Period Re-enactments and so on. People dress up, pretend they are someone/thing else, if only for a little while. Takes away one’s day-to-day boredom. Guess even the privileged and wealthy may get bored, they just have the means to make more of their dreams come true than most of us.
Then there are those who escape by abusing themselves with drugs and alcohol. That is more a form of suicide, though. In my opinion.
Anyway, there are all sorts of ‘escapes’, reading is another, travel, hobbies, just daydreaming. Like Walter Mitty. And me.
Here are two poems by Edwin Arlington Robinson, which kinda reflect on what I’ve tried to say here, only much, much better.
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king--
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not,
And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
And Priam’s neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the mediaeval grace
Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.
(I like poetry. They are just songs, well, lyrics, without the music. You could add your own music to them, if you wanted. Sing them in your head. Or aloud, even. Yeah, those above were pretty depressing, though, huh? Sorry. And I suppose this is similar to my 'Pretendence' post. Yeah, I guess a lot of stuff here is just re-thoughts of previous thoughts. Meh.)