One day you’re sitting on a deserted beach surrounded by beauty and crying because you have no idea where your place is in the world, and you realize that you don’t really have one. You make one for yourself around where you are. A space that is you-shaped but was not made for you. The world is given to you to find a place in yourself. No matter how much you travel you won’t find it because it’s not there. You have to make it.
I had this realization lately, and it was sad, and exhilarating. But mostly sad. I wanted to travel to find my place, and in my head I was going from here to there and everywhere looking for that environment and lifestyle that was cut out for me. As though I could find my perfect fit in some shop somewhere, and all I had to do was keep looking. And figuring out that I will never find it…well, at least it might save me the looking. But what a shame…
So I also realized why I love books so very much. I don’t like my story right now, and rather than create a new one with sweat and tears and hard work, I escape mindfully down into other stories – into places where I can be more excited and happy following a fake life than living my own… I don’t like my story, so I go to someone else’s.
I guess there’s another reason why novels were once considered sinful. They may make your own life unbearable.
A new warning on every great story – Caution: May make real life unlivable.