'Ambling down the lonely street the two walked, hand in hand. Their lives forever changed. Love filled their hearts. In each other's eyes, they were perfect, flawless. Love had filled there lives in less than two months. It was their happy ending.'
A dream story. Friendship, lust, love, and a happy ending. The perfect couple together at last, after hardships, struggles, and angry parents the two finally came together. Madly in love, kisses filled their lives. It's all so perfect.
Writing. It's my escape from the world. It gives me the chance to fall in love, to cuss out my parents, and ride the horse that I'm ever afraid of. Writing is just that. Dreaming and writing, never dreaming and doing it. Writers have the chance to live their perfect lives out, through words, through the speech and actions of their own characters, so often based upon themselves. All authors write about their obsessions, the things they long for, and the things they can't get out of their minds. Writing is an escape. Pulling me away from the reality of every situation. It keeps me happy, keeps me in my la-la land. I've always refused reality, or turned it into some twisted fantasy that I'll write down later in an epic story of adventure, treasure and damsels in distress. I've always wanted a fantasy life of my own. Hoping that one day, my prince will whisk me off to a giant castle on the French Riviera, where unicorns and elves run free.
People always tell me to get a grip, they doubt my dreams. Tell me that I'm living in my stories. I've never believed these people. I know one day, if I hope long enough, my dreams will come true. Dreams always do in stories, and what is reality, your own autobiography.