There was a time when I was entirely drained from a yearning. A yearning that ate away at my soul, and constantly drew me back to my past. It was like an obsession with amiss and dysfunction. I knew it wouldn’t work out. It never would. It never did. Something kept pulling me, tugging at the vessels in my heart, and kept me circling back to a story that I wrote. A story of fiction. Unrealistic. Fairytale. As much as I tried to make it come true, lining up all the dominoes, placing all the puzzle pieces next to their appropriate colors, still.
My mind takes turns down alleys filled with regret and remorse. It settles upon a box filled with nostalgia, and books I had written. I wrote these books, and when I was done writing I reread them over and over and over again. I read it, knowing the outcome each time but hoping for something different. Knowing there were no alternate endings. Then there was one day when I reached the end. The day I got tired of reading the same story. That was it. The end. I never opened it again.
So I get it…
Here we sit in a crowded restaurant, and I hear you say, “If I told you how many things we have been through. You’d ask me why I’m still in this.”
There it is. As you look up I can see your every thought being drained and every muscle in your face tensing. Out of all the people you know – I get it. You have fallen in love with a book with no alternate endings. And though it may take you years to find your way out – just stop reading.