submitted by ethereal-children
Reading, writing, books, words, fiction. Someone once said “every man who knows how to read has the power to magnify himself, to multiply the ways in which he exists, to make his life full, significant and interesting”. It’s true; nowadays, I only exist on paper. From cover to cover, as I rustle the pages, I can breathe freely inside the book. Ink has the power to grace me with beauty, majesty, elegance. My talents are endless, my horizons boundless, my allure limitless. I live a life so full and exciting that there is no time for emptiness or loss. I am strong, always brave, always lovable. Ironically, I’m sturdier on a piece of paper that I will ever be in life. But no one will ever know the person in the words (mainly due to the fact she isn’t real) because in writing I am something so extraordinary, so intriguing that I will only ever live like that inside my own mind, inside my precious books. My problem, just like the beloved Peeta from one of my books: I can’t tell what’s real anymore. I am a paper girl, a figment of my own imagination. How can I live in reality knowing that?