she

So she’ll write about it. The things she’ll never see, the places she’ll never get to go, the things she’ll never achieve, the dreams she’ll never get to fulfill, the people she’ll never get to meet. It’s all in her head, waiting to be passed on to the next dreamer, while all the other folk of the world get to experience the things she can only imagine. Life is too confusing, too disturbing and riddled with mire for her to partake in. She can see all the things she wants, but knows she will never amount to anything because she wants too much. So she’ll write about it. To get it out of her head. To have done something. To be able to tell herself that she has lived, albeit vicariously through her carefully crafted words.

She knows her stories, her worlds, don’t exist. But the world is too scary, too real to be lived in, the only way to stay alive is to replace the broken things with idealistic things, things that can be explained or, at the very least, be magical instead of empty and hopeless. The stories ignite a fire in her, and are the only thing through which she has ever received solace. The blank page screams to be given a structured world where the character knows their own mind, is sure of their feelings, is tested through conflict and struggle, and always has the courage and good heart required for the happy ending. Black and white. Structure. Resolution. Clarity. The words and ideas and stories and hopes have been bottled up for so long, it is difficult to get them out. Difficult to write through the haze of forgetfulness. The racing thoughts don’t leave until they are expressed on the screen, or to the as-yet-unknown person that actually wants to listen.