life is like a book.
countless books on shelves, all with stories to tell. books with endless pages of memories, of hurt and loss, of love, desire, passion and pain. some books are colourful. some have pictures. some are in black and white, single margin, lonely.
some books are filled to the brim. you've got the book sagas, the trilogies, people who have lived their lives to the fullest and can fill up more pages than they can count. some books are short stories, but nonetheless are interesting, and unique in it's own right.
we're all books. we're all stories waiting to be told.
we've got the main character in the book, ourselves. and the supporting characters, the people around us. some are more important than others. but they're all apart of our book. we've got drama, and adventure, and love stories, thrillers.
god, our lives are so much more interesting than we believe. sometimes we're so unappreciative of the things we have in our lives. the people we have. the clothes on our backs. the air filling our lungs.
somewhere out there in the world, there's a story that's about to end. someone out there is gasping for a breath. someone out there is all alone, crying in the darkest corners of their room, wishing for things to be different somehow. someone out there has no friends, no one to swap secrets with. someone out there cannot feel love. and yet, here we are, throwing things away. disregarding the people who love us. the people who care. sometimes, our stories are actually fairy tales gone wrong. a love story turned into a thriller. it's...sad.
i wish i could learn to appreciate my own story. learn to love my own book. yet, sometimes i wish i could live someone else's life. read someone else's book. be someone else. anyone else.
and that, i think, is the saddest story of all.