Real.

There are so many ways to tell a story. And sometimes, none of them is the right one.

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There are so many ways to tell a story (a good or a bad one, for you never know how it’s gonna be from the very beginning)

For starters, I could just say that real life was crashing right into me, and confuse you all, until like 5 chapters in when things start adding up and making sense.

But I would be most likely lying, because I don’t actually have anything planned that, at some point, would end up opening your eyes to the bigger picture I’m trying to paint.

Or, I could start up by saying that I think that every person we ever meet is a book. Every life we cross paths with is a story that leaves a certain impression on our souls. While some stories just fall flat on our conscience, being either boring or stupid �"from our own point of view, for we cannot know others’ as well �" others open our eyes, brighten a lowly lit room in our minds even a little bit each. And others just break our hearts. But those tend to be the most beautiful ones.

But I can’t tell it like this either, mainly because it’s too poetic and I’d probably get lost trying to understand what I just said.

So I’m just going to tell you that reality is not my favorite place. Not because my life sucks in any way possible, it’s actually pretty good, but because it’s not the amazing story that I would have imagined it to be.

Now it’s your time to say: what story? What kind of twisted, off the hook thing does this girl want her life to be?

And to that, I can answer with another story:

There was once a little girl, who loved cartoons very much. She liked the way that plots evolved, even though she did not know how to put that thing that happens when action after action brings consequences that further the plotlines into words. She tended to like cliffhangers, if it meant that she got to imagine the story herself, before she was shown it. That meant she could magically become the hero of her hero. At least in her head. But if there was a thing that she hated about all the shows she watched on the TV in her grandpa’s room, it was filler episodes. She hated them, they brought no consequences whatsoever, and only wasted screen time.

But she loved those characters so much that she could get over some little filler episodes. And through games and imagination, she became one of them, saving imaginary lives and living things that were far too real to be just make believe games with her friends. Too real to not be the reality.

Then she grew up. And it was apparently not nice anymore to run around yelling bloody murder at a kid who’s playing the villain. Her friends and parents thought so, so the make believe games with others stopped. Then she found books and real TV shows, not like the ones on the kids’ channels she used to follow. And in those stories she found the plots that she had always loved in cartoons. And through them, even more characters dear to her. So she held on to them, to every single name and trait and behavior she liked, creating her own make believe world, where other people couldn’t tell her to get real.

Because in her make believe world, she was in control. In there, she could dream of adventures on never before explored lands, of magicians and fairies and assassins. Of being brave and kind and ruthless and merciful at the same time. Of things that she could never get or have the courage to do in her too real, boring world. Because if there was a thing she hated about a story, it was filler episodes, and life itself felt like one.

So now that I’ve said this, who is the girl in my story? It’s me. And if you’re still reading, means you’re going to learn more about your very ordinary, but not so much so, protagonist and how real life came crashing in on her, because no fantasy can last forever, and death exists to remind us of that. (not that anybody real died, it just seemed like a nice comparison, sorry for misleading you)