I read the same book again.
Have read it thousands of times already.
Now every nook and cranny of the story.
But it calms me.
It's my favorite story.
Then I read it, I don't feel so alone.
The characters are my friends.
Whenever I read them I pull them from the pages into reality.
And I need them.
They tell me I'm crazy.
Crazy for thinking of characters in a story as my friends.
Tell me I should just go outside and make real friends.
But I can't.
It never really works.
And why should this thought, this beliefe be crazy anyway?
Aren't we just characters in our own story as well?
Aren't most of us not even the main characters but just nameless comparison in a world created for someone else?
Aren't there enough other story's that show this?
So, if our world is also nothing but a story, what's wrong with being friends with characters from other stories?
What makes us different?
Doesn't every character think that their story is reality?
You can call me crazy, I don't care.
Perhaps you are the crazy ones.
And who says that not all of us are wrong?
That everything is just a story?
Or the opposite: That everything is a reality?
Isn't this what most writers write about anyway?
What dreamers dream about?
Scientists research about?
The theory of the multiverse?
What if every story is simply a window to another world?
If every author is actually a seer, having the ability to look into alternate worlds?
Alternate realities?
They say I must be going insane.
That my feelings are messing with my head.
That it's just teenage confusion.
That I'm too much of a dreamer.
That I should get my head out of the clouds.
But do I really ned to do this?
Can't I just be me?
A dreamer, a writer, a character in a story?
The loner in class who runs away into fairytales stuck between the pages of books?
Another Wendy taken to Neverland by Peter Pan?
Another Alice who fell down the rabbit hole?
Another Dokja Kim whose story is reality?
My heart clenches and screams every time someone tells me that I should touch down onto reality.
I want to let it all out.
Sometimes I scream.
I defend my point.
Sometimes I stay silent, unable to tell anyone.
My throat to tight to let out words.
Because I keep wondering.
When will my story end?
Is it really worth defending?
Every story ends at some point, once all the pages are folded.
Over time every story is fully told, including mine.
But I still come back here, every time.
Back to my thoughts.
Back to my friends made from ink and dreams.
Back to the Stories.
Because they keep calling me.
They are my safe haven.
The place reality can't take away.
The people who only speak in my mind but are my friends nevertheless.
No one can take that from me.
No matter how often they tell me I should stop wasting my time reading so much.
Because I promised.
I promised that I will read them again.
Every single story.
I will read them again.