The wrong story book
I can't help but wonder who I am. Am I Ivry Marie of Westchester or am I some other person by another name of another place? I feel like a character put in the wrong story book. The book I am in now is filled with the wrong type of curruption. I need fairytale madness. It is what all the cells I am constructed from are infused with. In this world of harsh reality and endless deadends I stick out worse than a red rose planted amongst a garden of white roses.
But perhaps it is the other way around, I am the white rose, and they are the red. Fairytales and imagination still consume my mind with a blissful madness like a child never grown. But the rest of the world around me had made it their life goal to grow up as fast as possible, never stopping, corrupting their minds with the foulness of a different kind of reality. A reality where questions must be answered. A reality where question and wonder simply mean worry and fear.
But in my reality questions lead to adventures which lead to more questions which lead to more adventures. Maybe I never find answers but I find a little bit more of myself eachadventure I go on. And I keep hoping that maybe one day I will find another character like me, placed in the wrong story book.
Thats the rally sad oart about living in another reality. No one gets you. I find myself alone quite often, it makes me happy, I get ot explore my mind a little more, picture what kind of story I belong in. And what kind of story I belong in. And when I am no alone I have to pretend to be someone that I am not for if I didn't people of this novel would know I don't belong here and I wouldn't be alone by choice any longer.
None of this would make sense to most. But maybe just one other person. Someone out there who is trapped, just like me, wondering where they really belong.
But perhaps it is the other way around, I am the white rose, and they are the red. Fairytales and imagination still consume my mind with a blissful madness like a child never grown. But the rest of the world around me had made it their life goal to grow up as fast as possible, never stopping, corrupting their minds with the foulness of a different kind of reality. A reality where questions must be answered. A reality where question and wonder simply mean worry and fear.
But in my reality questions lead to adventures which lead to more questions which lead to more adventures. Maybe I never find answers but I find a little bit more of myself eachadventure I go on. And I keep hoping that maybe one day I will find another character like me, placed in the wrong story book.
Thats the rally sad oart about living in another reality. No one gets you. I find myself alone quite often, it makes me happy, I get ot explore my mind a little more, picture what kind of story I belong in. And what kind of story I belong in. And when I am no alone I have to pretend to be someone that I am not for if I didn't people of this novel would know I don't belong here and I wouldn't be alone by choice any longer.
None of this would make sense to most. But maybe just one other person. Someone out there who is trapped, just like me, wondering where they really belong.
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