Here I am, once again. Another late night, sitting on the edge of my bed after a long day of work. Clothes, shoes, books and papers scattered across the bedroom floor but they're just sacraments of reality to me. They're anchors, just like the rest of my home. The grey couch, the grey carpet, the grey walls- anchors that constantly wake my daydreams of Macaroons, white dresses, and bicycles in Paris. They steal me away from New York, city skylines and beautiful people, and force me into a routine so depressing I could slit my throat right here on this bed. Who is the culprit? The fantasy or the reality? Who is to blame for my yearning?
I blame the books. The black-and-white lined pages that composed majority of my childhood. They're the ones that educated me, that told me about places far away from this one, where even boring old meadows held the sweetest of surprises, and a boat in the sea meant only one thing: adventure. Books, they are the ones that ruined me. They brought my mind so far away but kept my body spotless and thirsting to be transformed, to follow the imagination into wondrous worlds of lives I'd never live.
What good is seeing the unknown but never feeling it?
Those pages, they're dangerous.