At what point does it evolve from being an escape, to being the path through which you go out and meet the rest of the world?

The escape itself is always the path, the arrow of metaphysics points strictly in one direction. 

A pattern emerges, in whatever little time we have spent thus. In the fitful, waking hours of the night; or the restless quiet moments of the day, before everything else rushes in. We find each other when there is nothing left to give to the rest of the world. We find each other at the end of the day's journey, weary but steady. 

We are raw. We marinate in words and kisses until, by osmosis, we are prepped for the world's taking again. To live and die like that.