Downstairs in the living room, it is quite. The curtains block the sun from hitting my eyes. I sit in a wooden rocking chair, set by the window. I’m able to watch the wind catch the leaves off the tall maple tree planted in my front yard. My mind begins to generate a story, and it all starts here. I prepare myself by letting my mind run free, like a bird being released in the jungle. Able to fly free, enjoying the blue open skies and the sounds of other animals surrounding. I felt refreshed, like it was a new story I’ve never heard before.
My life is very structured. I have a daily routine for each day of the week. I have no change, no worries but I know that someday I will be out of place. Where will that place be? Where will it bring me? I asked myself many questions, making myself feel like I’m being interrogated in a small dark corner of a room. I scare myself back to reality, but I don’t think reality is where I want to be. What is reality exactly? Do we live it every day? I can’t possibly be drifting back into a make believe story, but yes this is where I want to be.
In this story, the one I’ve never heard before I suddenly realize that I am the one telling it, I am the one that is writing it. This story feels so real; it feels like one of those novelties you pick up at the bookstore and start reading. You end up buying it because every time you turn the page you want to read more. The more I