I cry more for fiction than I do for Real Life

I escape into books. They move me in a way that reality doesn't. They manipulate my feelings and sneak into my thoughts. I launch myself into an intentional state of psychosis. I become attached to these fictional people. I learn their quirks, see their mistakes. Sometimes I'm baffled with their ability to handle situations with calmness and grace. Why I can't be like that? 


Then I remember that as much as I would sometimes love to be a character in a book, I am not. I am a sixteen year old girl that follows a mundane life. My daily struggles are mainly decisions regarding lunch or who to bring to Senior Ball. There is no heroism in real life. There is no climax. There is no magic. There is no struggle to win. 


What makes a great story is the incessant battle to live, and how the hero managed to come out on the other side. Either that, or a tragedy; in which case, the hero does not survive. 


However, I am not faced with a struggle between life and death. I am faced with a struggle relating to my indifference towards life. The boredom that is constantly tugging at my heart relates back to my desire need for adventure. 


I almost feel as if my life isn't my own, and until it is, my mind will thrive in a realm out of reach from the world that my body partakes in.


But the truth is quite the contrary. One day I will live my fairy tale, I will solve the mystery, I will learn to love, I will change a life, I will save a life, I will conquer all of my fears, I will feel something beyond anxiety, I will be larger than life.
I will do and be something grand. 


One day I won't turn to a book to fulfill the need of an adventure. Rather, I will grow weary because of my exciting life, and desire a good read. 


Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie