I had two of the greatest English teachers of all time while I was in high school: Mr. Degenhardt and Mr. Mulvey. On the first day of Sophomore English, Mr Degenhardt had written this on the board: "Reality compromises the ideal."
I sat down in my seat and thought, "Well, shit. That explains everything." That quote stayed up the entire year, and as I looked at it every day, it slowly dawned on me that *this* was why I loved books; *this* was why I loved the roadtrip, but not the packing or the arriving; *this* was why I loved Christmas Eve, but found Christmas too bright, too cloying.
I don't do so well with reality, and the longer I live, the longer I teach, I think there's a pretty sizable number of us in this tribe. We are the artists who never finish the painting, not because we can't, but because it's just too beautiful to risk finishing. We're the ones whose hearts break when a book ends, but know that there's another, unread, on the shelf, ready to be picked up upon immediate conclusion of the last (I also find that this is true with home goods like toilet paper, milk, and almond butter--I can't stand to live in that limbo of 'almost out of' or, goddess forbid, 'run out completely').
We love the safety and the art of the doing; our favorite part of the concert is in the very middle of the symphony--past the beginning adjustment and well before the drawing back in, the reacclimating, and (shudder) the socializing.
So we love the hover, the drift. We love the ideal, and we'll happily live there--in good company amongst the English teachers, the writers, the artists, the poets.