I wonder what it would be like, to just run away into the safty of my room and hide myself in the many books that litter the floor. I stare at them each night, memorizing and re-memorizing each sentence and puncuation. But the stories have long since lost the thrill that the first read can bring. Now they are just hollow pages of words that I have seen hundreds of times. But I can not bring my self to let them go. To let the images they bring leave my mind,and never control my dreams again. They make me forget the world for those short hours I can hide in their pages.
Why can't they be real? Would that be so much to ask for? The sweet, unreal love and people that float up from the pages to my mind? I want what I know could never be, yet each thought brings me closer and closer to flying to my sanctuary and the land of makebelieve and happy endings. But not all stories are happy, nor loving, nor fiction. And those draw me in more than the wispy promises the fairy tales give.