Reality Isn't What I Want

I almost envy those who don't see what is so great about reading. They have things in the real world keeping them there, what is so great about having to occupy your mind and send it to a cave of wondrous words. It is lovely, fantastic, terrifying, and life ruining; reading is all of that. I hate it. I love it. I can't handle how normal my world is. I can't handle that I live in Mundania when I could be living in Xanth! What good are books when they end? Its over. Done. No more. 

Sure you can reread it again, and again. You can read till your eyes bleed and your fingers can't find the tattered pages to turn. The story is still trapped in a bound prison of paper that no matter how hard you try, you can not penetrate. You will never be allowed access to the most beautiful places ever imagined. You can never gaze at impossible things with impossible beings. You will be chained to the ever standing gate of reality, that will forever bar you from the awe inspiring. Only ever allowing you small, ever fleeting, glimpses as you press your eager face against the cold rails.

I don't want reality. I don't need it. I want to be there. I want to just open a book and let the ink drip from the pages and slowly wash over me, every inch draws me in deeper. Whispering wonderful, new, exciting things to me. Things that I will get to do, things that I can touch. Feel with my own hands and emotions. The ink would grow thicker and thicker and gain control of me, I would not put up a fight. My subconscious ebbing away at the flowing music of pages turning. That would be my peace. To live the rest of my life in a book of impossible things. 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741