• Sometimes I think, "Why can't I be anyone else other than me?"

    I've always wondered why I couldn't be a fictional character, born from the tips of an author's pen. Why was I rewarded with this body, this life, this story? Maybe I was meant to lead this mundane life. Maybe I was meant to breathe life into the empty pages of my journal. Giving life to an epic story, an exciting character, and a legacy that may be passed down through the ages; but why can't I be that exciting character? Why can't I travel through an epic story? Why can't I be passed down through the ages?

    With every repetition of my tale, I would come alive again and again. I would live through my journey over and over again. I would be able to experience the greatness of my actions for the second time around. The third time. The fourth time. The fifth time. And I would never get bored because my actions were for the greater good. Maybe I was able to save the world. Maybe I was able to save a tiny ant. Or perhaps I was a dynamic character and was able to overcome my own obstacles.

    Everything I wished I was turned into a fictional character in the depths of my mind; everything that I was not gave birth to a small existence that grew rather large as time progressed. And as that time progressed, I lost myself. I lost myself in the depths of the tales I spun to satisfy my insatiable hunger for something I wish was, but was not. The insatiable hunger was devouring me on the inside, and without anything on the inside, how could I possibly survive? So I began devouring the characters that I knew so well. I consumed every detail, every morsel of the characters I had created; I had sucked them dry of life.

    I knew that with every tale, every character, I would be changed little by little until finally my real self would cease to exist.

    And that leads to what I am today:

    a shell full of character.