I was a fan of stories. Yes, stories. Such of all kinds. I love reading them. I love imagining their dreamy endings and how they live after such endings. Their lives are fantastic. Sweet, dark, nice. It doesn’t matter how the story. What matters is that, for a moment in time, they take me away from myself and allow me to live someone else’s without totally losing foothold of my current reality.
I became so much a fan of stories that I stopped being a fan — that is, stopped being JUST a fan. I started writing them.
I wrote about how I wanted life to be. I wrote stories that mirror the life I wish I am in right now. And believe me, when you’re a fan of how reading stories take you away from reality, writing them takes you away as well — only that the degree is superlatively more exhilarating than being just a reader.
At first, I wrote stories that end sadly. These were stories that reflect my current reality, my current story. I wrote stories where I was practically just telling my readers what I’m doing by the minute. It was a happy ride, but there was no adventure.
And then it hit me. The stories I’ve read take me away from reality for a while. They give me the great escape I needed, and now I need something to take me away from my current reality. I need to write in a way that I’m not staying in reality. I need to write something so good and so dreamy, it takes me away for a while. I wanted to write what I wanted life to be, not what life is now. If anything, it’s called escape. That way, I don’t need to divulge into vices and all that; I just needed to tell a story that would take my readers away — including myself.
Hell, it did take me away: the more I wrote those dreamy stories, the more I wished I was in those stories. I wrote stories that ended happily — stories that ended the way I want my life to be.
I wrote too much of those stories. I wrote so much that I believed so much in them. I wrote fairly good stories, enough to at least make me believe I’m not myself as long as I’m holding the pages and reading the letters that tell the story I pretty much crafted inside my crazy mind. I became a firm believer that these stories were my escape. I’ll read, I’ll write, and that’s pretty much the escape I ever needed. I got contented…
…Until YOU came into my life, Kara Lane. Until the day YOU dressed like an angel (that, in the end, I never chose to forget) and for that reason I’ve seen one right before my eyes. I saw no other. and until today, I see no other angel than YOU. That no amount of simplicity and craziness can hide the fact that YOU are an angel.
YOU made me believe that all I need to do is to be myself; that I never needed to pretend and build walls in order to be acceptable. With YOU, I can just be totally myself, no walls, no pride, and I believe this is preparing me to be myself in front of the world, too.
Thank YOU for making me stop write stories. Yes, you did.
Thank YOU because since that day we started being–well, together–I never felt any need to write dreamy, blissful stories…
…That’s because YOU are now the story of my life — that life I wrote in stories, that life I dreamed every time I write every letter of that story… is just what YOU bring to my reality every single day.
Thank YOU for bringing my stories to life. Thank YOU for adding the happiness in my reality.
YOU are everything I never thought I wanted, and will never ever want to lose now. Call it fate or destiny, but I’m sure I’m so in love with YOU…
…so in love that I never needed to write any happy story.
YOU never did write any story for me…
…but YOU did turn my stories into my life — by making me happy like nobody else ever did before.
In short, thank YOU for being the reason I smile everyday — for being the reason I’d wanted to be a better person.
I love YOU, Kara Lane Zurbano.
I was a fan of stories. I was a writer of stories. Now, I am my stories. They’re not exactly the same, but this life is happier than ever.