Stories: Made to Inspire, Not To Live In

I wear a cloak of stories that swishes with every step. My body is adorned with the scars and hearts of all the characters I have read.

I have lived a long time in story-world. There was a time where I believed that in life I would get nowhere. So I turned to reading, where I immersed myself in fictional characters who always came up on top. I cried with them, I laughed with them, and I shouted with them.

My own life was something I was not too pleased about. It was riddled with losses and unhappiness because I could not be the best I wanted to be. There was nothing more I wanted to do except jump headfirst in Hogwarts and spend my time in the Slytherin common room, or jump headfirst into Terrasen and spend time in the beautiful castle and vibrant court.

I suppose quarantine has allowed me to open my eyes. I have managed to wrench myself from the story-world at last, and take initiative with my own life, even if my eyes continue to rove the crisp white pages bound together in a book.

What I have realized is that life cannot be like a story. A story cannot be like life because life, itself, is boring and filled with ups and downs.

I have spent too much time running after a fantastical life I will never have. Spent too much time hoping magic will erupt from my palms in a glow of fire. Spent too much time wondering why my life seems to be a glass house built on wheels.

Life does not wait for you. Life will not wait for me.

I choose to take control of my life, and take my hands away from the pages because from everything I have read, I know that taking the first step is the most important, and bravery and cunning will lead me on my way.

I know that I can make it through the trenches of the war, even if my heart falters at times because I have no friends I wish to hold close to my heart. I know that eventually life will fit itself into my palms and will tell me that I have done everything I can.

So I hope that when I lay on my deathbed, I do not spend time wondering if the characters in my stories died with longing in their hearts to stay another day. I will spend time feeling jubilant that I have done everything in my life that I could ever do.

Stories are made to inspire. They are not made to live in.

Lots of love,


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