I keep waiting for my life to start. I have lived through stories – read, seen, or heard or through dreams, both of night and day.
Right from the childhood, giving one pointless exam after another, trying to get into a college and then dying to get out only to struggle to get into another one.
I wait. And wait, for my story to start. Dreams and stories, sometimes I feel those are the only times I have truly lived.
This. I feel this. I feel you, mate. I’ve planning my great escape since I can remember. Living free and living true, living for me, that sort of thing. So many scenarios in my head that I’m scared to touch, for they may fall apart. The worse part, I get comfortable with scenarios being only in my head.