I have a confession to make.
I want to be my characters.
Even my most pathetic, wallpaper background character has more courage than I do.
I want to live my characters’ adventures. I want to be able to throw responsibility to the wind and not have to pay the price for it. I want friends I can trust with my life. I want companions interested in seeing the world with me. I want lovers that can make me writhe in ecstasy and beg for more.
I want to vent my rage at everyone who angers me with their slights. I want to look back on everyday and not feel regret for how I’ve spent my life. I don’t want to care about how my actions affect other people. I want to feel desired. I want to be pleasantly surprised that things turned out so well from a steaming hot mess.
I want to be 39 going on 40, feeling like 28, not 39 going on 60, feeling like 97.
You can change, they say. Every day, every moment. Is a new chance.
True. It is.
But I can’t have even half of what I want without destroying everyone else around me.
Perhaps that’s why I write. So I can pretend the real world doesn’t exist. So I can live out hopes and dreams without negative consequence.
I don’t want to be on my deathbed supremely pissed and sobbing that I didn’t get what I wanted done.
Which I suspect will be the case. So I live vicariously through my characters, and hope that it’s enough.
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