The Complexity of Words on Paper

By Cierra Monaco
Staff Writer

I feel that sometimes I may be lost. Not physically, not mentally, but socially. There are times when I feel like I don’t belong, that I am too different. I write words with pen on paper, while everyone else is glued to blue screens. They scroll mindlessly, while pour my heart and soul onto a too thin paper. I live between the pages of books, flying line by line. Others are stuck in reality. I like to think that my life is more interesting. I’ve lived hundreds of lives, from assassins to pirates to queens. I’ve visited hundreds of lands. I have seen every aspect of architecture imaginable. I have seen dragons, faeries and magic. Yet most would argue otherwise. The lives I have lived between the pages of my books are not real. They are false realities. Really living is going to parties, getting drunk and being out late they tell me.

Most people today have no interest in exploring my world. The place where I truly thrive. The place where I feel like I belong. Maybe that classifies me as different, weird even. It pains me that people don’t get to live the life that I do. That they are choosing not to explore the millions upon millions of lives and outcomes. They are willingly ignoring one of the most beautiful things about reality. Fantasy.