This is
the point when I realize that every fucking story is bullshit. Even the real
ones.
I used
to read so much, that I kind of became a part of what I read. That I dreamed
with it, that I wished it to be real, even if it was a horror life with zombies
or dramatic-world-death or stuff like that.
It’s like a slapped in every part
of your body, when you find out that love isn’t like in love stories, that your
dream-job isn’t the greatest thing in your life, that health isn’t the best you
can wish, or sickness isn’t the worst you can have. Is a slapped, because you
now know that you drive your own life, and you make your own destiny.
This is
the point where I know that each person’s life story is bullshit for any other
human being.
Your
story is only true for you, and his story is only real for him, and my story is
only mine. And me and only me, can understand it, and appreciate it, and follow
it, and write it, and be it.
I used
to immerse in others stories but mine, because my story used to be so, so
boring.
And when
I realized that boredness is like death, I just changed my visual in life.
I just
searched for something that could make me happy, or not-bored. I just looked
for my own factory of adrenaline and… I just visualized at it, and I just went
for it.
I
dropped the I-want-that-character’s-life off my system, and I made my way to
my-story-is-the-kind-of-story-wich-bored-people-of-his-life-is-searching-for.
So, yes.
I still read, because the stories were made for reading it.
But, no. I don’t
try to own those anymore. I just read them like some weird story and just that.
A story.
