What’s that she said?

She has her own story?

She’s also referring to herself in third person. Clearly befuzzled. Entirely bonkers.

For a long, long time I didn’t believe that I could ever have a story of my own. I was tragically convinced that the only world worth living in was absolutely, unequivocally anyone else’s other than mine. Real life seemed so boring and repetitive. Especially my specific life that I was given, or rather the one that I seemed to have chosen for myself. Well, of course it would seem to be that way to anyone if they never bothered to surface and kept forcefully drowning in books. I dove from visits to one writer’s bay to another and another until my benefactors (A.K.A. parents) refused to give me any more money for purchasing those lovely handheld treasures.

At one point in time, my shelves and desks were simply overflowing with the novels in my collection. My school library was my saviour from the allowance cut, swiftly followed by eBooks which became my new fix. I got a job in the summer holidays and bought a Kindle with my (reluctantly) hard-earned-money. EBooks satisfied me for a while until the free stories online bobbed up and showed me their ways. Ah, the wondrous world of Fanfiction was mercifully discovered like it was my very own Lost City beneath the waves. Entire books, unrestricted and limitless, lay before me and I sunk even deeper into other people’s fantastical stories.

All of a sudden, Reality started to become very impatient with my constant reprimands and snubbing. Sabotage was his plan of action. He decided to overturn my boat and drag me, dripping with tears, back to shore. My travels to the other realms had been crudely interrupted. This realm required some attention too. It was practically begging me to notice it. I threw a tantrum or ten, but ultimately I dried off and took a look around and a few glints of possibilities caught my eye. This world had interesting creatures that I remembered, as if from a faraway land in my memories. I had been here before. My friends and family longed for my return and rejoiced when they saw my blue-grey-eyes clear of the misty bubbles.

Now I just have to try re-remember that life. The life which I was so fond of escaping and ignoring. It has always been there. I merely chose to see into my visionless-voyages over the ocean I called literature. On numerous occasions over the past five years, my fantasy-telescope was confiscated whenever I attempted to take a sneaky peek for old time’s sake. My story has expanded quite a lot since I let real life take control of the helm, for I have yet to make a proper fantastical journey back into the familiar depths. Though, perhaps I should remain tethered here in the real world a while longer, to copy my sand-musings onto stone before they are washed away into nothingness once again.