In my dreams, I’m a famous novelist. And I played Victoria in Scenes from a Memory, and Elwing in The Silmarillion, and various other characters in various other movies. And I’m known for singing too. And I illustrate my own children’s books. And I wrote and arranged the musical based on Blind Guardian’s Nightfall in Middle-Earth, which in turn was based on J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Silmarillion.
I have a beautiful castle-esque house in the mountains. With a garden, and a creek nearby, and a huge forest with foxes and other animals. I have a husband, but no kids, and lots of pets. Dogs and cats, and maybe a bat which I would name Niko after a character in my story, who was named after a hockey player, even before he came to the Avs. Premonition, I suppose.
I’m an angel in a human body, and that is alright. I can remember, and I have the answers to all my questions. And I help show other people that they are alright, that they’re beautiful even if no one ever sees. I tell people that they have to find their own path, and learn their own truths, that no one can tell them what’s true, they have to discover it. And I know my own truths, and I am content with them.
I feel free, and happy, and accomplished.
And then.. then I look at where I am now. I’m a girl who’s almost 20, who sleeps all day, and plays on the computer all night. Who never leaves the house, who has no friends except those she knows online, and even those she has distanced herself from, or else is too disinclined, too unmotivated to get to know. I call myself a writer. I can’t remember the last time I worked on something I plan to hopefully get published.. some day. Every night, I tell myself I should work on that story, I should get up earlier, I should mud less, I should do something... And every night I procrastinate more and more, and stay up until 4am, and think.. maybe tomorrow...
Today, I saw the sun. When it was still up high in the sky, and not slowly sinking behind the mountains. I looked in the mirror and saw a very pretty and pale girl. I spoke softly and shyly when the dentist asked how I was. I never met anyone’s eyes but my own. I pondered being famous, and what that next novel would be.. what I’d say in interviews. How much more articulate I was, how.. likable. I wondered how much it would hurt to stab a knife into my stomach, but decided that arranging a suicide would take too much time, which I didn’t have at the moment.
“I exist in my own little world, but I’m running out of oxygen.”