I make up stories. I create elaborate fictions where a part of my mind resides. I made up a baseball game with a whole cast of players among eight teams, an entirely fabricated world of games and teams and champions. I never play anymore.
I can see scenarios unfold from the fabric of our mundane realities. I see situations play out, wild and implausible. I snap back to the world and it all disappears.
I have parallel stories to my own life running alongside mine. In the past few months, they have grown and become more elaborate. I go back to them occasionally and daydream.
I have a garden where I grow things and eat them.
There are a half dozen places I can retreat to in my imagination, some invented and some memories of the past and some a combination of the two.
When you create your own worlds, you can do whatever you want with them. You can build them up. You can burn them to the ground. You can also restore them to new glories.