Hiding Myself

Life is easy to a lover of books reality slips away no matter how dreary everything looks the stories can brighten the day. But I need no pages to make my egress from life's daily drama I switch off my mind so my thoughts can digress from the bitterness and the trauma. I can make up stories in my head to get me through each day I know perhaps that might sound sad but it works in every way. Fairy tales and adventures, and stories of love my imagination works away characters of beauty, angels from above whole fantasies played in a day. Maybe it sounds like I have no life well I do, but perhaps I don't want it I give my normality as a tithe in exchange for the stories that haunt it. But I'm hiding, I know, from the truth of a life that is just so mundane though I would give my eye tooth just to liven it up all the same perhaps if I focused on real life instead my life would form some direction if the mist could clear from around my head instead of trying to be my protection. If I write my stories on paper they seem so childish and immature when in my mind's cloudy vapour they held quite an exciting allure. Oh, whatever, I'll just keep dreaming my life has no point anyway my stories will go on forever until my life slips away.