It just might happen that the degree of fantasy deviating from the cliche of a collected reality differs.
No man is an island, true enough, but we are all alone nonetheless. Perhaps we dream of bettering our finances; perhaps of strengthening our emotional connections fictional or existent. Some of us dream of God, some of fame. We dream in numbers and colors and grammatical syntax.
The sheer amount of things a human being can dream of, pine for, is overwhelming. This in part helps to shelter us; we instinctively hide in a fortress where we choose what to think about, more or less, and simply follow life from there. We are more than aware of other modes of existence and other realities and most of us care, but care is irrelevant.
This is the reason for fiction, and this is all the justification I can stomach coming out of my personal fantasy for.
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