Hide. Hide behind something. Isn't that why you do this? Every second spent reading you're far away, there's no you actually. You're a mere spectator to a story that unfolds right before your eyes. At that moment your own story disappears. Does it come as a relief? Not to have to face your life, hiding away in the back of your mind, dwelling in intellectual matters detached from the grueling physical world?
You take delight in exploring the endless possibilities of a thousand realms, attentively analyzing the trials set upon the characters, losing yourself to the infinite outcomes that may arise, trying to figure out the optimum course of action for every single one of them. You respond to the characters. Growling in frustration for their blunt mistakes, closing your eyes tight as if rejecting the tragedies they're confronted with, unleashing a smile for their triumphs... Living through those characters, you witnessed their victories, even cheered for it to happen. Now you wonder why can't you be like them, why when faced with similar hardships you can't gather the courage to follow your gut instinct, and mute the fear speaking directly into your ears. And it's then you realize that that's exactly the reason why no stories are written about people like you, instead being written about them. Without being real those characters have lived more than you, you that resigned to being like this. Alive but still not living.
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