[fictional life]

I still find myself hiding in closets hoping to find Narnia, where I’ll defeat a witch, team up with beavers and minotaurs and end up king with my siblings along side a Lion.

I still catch myself gazing longingly to the night sky hoping that Pan will come swooping down and I’ll zoom off to Neverland where I’ll save a girl and her brothers and battle the guy with the dysfunctional hand.

I still notice myself pondering about what it would be like to have super powers and be extraordinary as I show off to all my friends and some sort of drama ensues, but all wraps up nicely as I save the day and get the girl of my dreams.

I still have to watch myself when I come across holes in the ground, because every fiber of my being wants to fall down then and stumble into Wonderland where I’ll have tea with a rabbit and a madman and then slay a Jabberwocky.

I still am surprised at myself when I come across a large, spooky house that my gut instinct is to go inside and make friends with the resident ghost and solve the mystery while being chased by evil ghouls and what not.

I still wish that when I see a ship in a textbook, I was sailing on some great adventure where buried treasure lies in a cove guarded by bloodthirsty pirates and a mighty sea dragon.

I still hope that when I see a shooting star, the wish that I make will come true and the tiny cricket will sing a song and all my dreams come true.

I obviously still despreatly want to escape reality.

I now know why fiction writers became so popular.