There is a club and you are not a member.  The club pretends not to exist.  When you feel downhearted because you are not in the club, its members tease you for believing in it.  Bewildered, they assure you that they are not members, nor is there any club of which you speak.  We are all just people, they say, and you can be whatever you want.  You feel momentarily reassured.  Perhaps you belong.

But deep down, you know otherwise.  You are always, to a certain extent, aware of the existence of this club.  The idea that members are so close to it that they cannot see it only makes you feel more isolated. 

So you keep going about your life, idly spending the days as you always do, when you get an idea, a dream, a glimpse of what could be.  And then the shapeless melancholy nudges you awake with renewed significance, as you remember these are hopeless, because without membership to the club, the idea, the dream, the glimpse, can never be realised.