While searching for ideas for this blog, I came across a phrase that goes as follows:
The trouble with fiction is that it makes too much sense, and reality never makes any sense.
I found this to be a very accurate phrase for the majority of my life. When I grew up, and life grew too complicated and daunting for my brain to perceive, I would hide away in the stories of others. It is so silly that I would willingly wish to conquer kingdoms and battle dragons in my mind and yet refuse to do my math homework. I loved those worlds, oh so different from my own. I can recall suffocating nearly under blankets piled high to conceal the shine of my flashlight, illuminating the pages deep into the night.
Sometimes, it felt like I knew those characters better than I knew myself, and to this day, they are still some of my most cherished friends and confidants. I know it is such a silly thought to be friends with people who don't exist and writing this out now does sound pretty sad. However, as someone who shut themself from the world as a coping mechanism, those friends of paper and ink were the only things I had for many years.
Even though I now have proper friends to talk to and real life to explore, I will never forget those nights. I believe I will always love to read, simply for the excuse of escaping my reality for a while and diving into someone else's world, where I can deal with their problems instead of my own.
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