Books.

I love to live inside books. I like not being me.

There's hope for a future, I feed on the characters dreams because I don't have dreams of my own. They let me escape my depressing reality just for a while, a moment I'd like to stretch forever.

I let someone else express the way I feel in a clearer way, a way I'd never could. Feeling their happiness is the only way I can allow myself feeling happy for I think I don't deserve it. I'd love my life to stay still, completely still so I can read forever, living someone else’s life. I know I’m not part of it, but the emotions are real. If they cry, I cry. I feel real, fulfilled, contained, understood. I feel I belong, just me in between those pages.

The thing I hate about when I read what I've wrote is that I'm forever trapped in the darkness of my thoughts and feelings.