I’ve been on too many solitary bus trips but I have never felt alone in the company of a good novel. I am too drunk with the plot to care that my fingers only brush the pages of a paperback instead of holding someone’s hand. I am too engrossed living a thousand different lives with each story that I fail to see how hard I’ve been trying to escape the one life I actually have.
Because it’s too mundane. Because I am too ungrateful.
No dragons, no spectacular proposals of love, no teenage boys with superpowers, no unresolved murder, no dystopian revolutions, no intergalactic adventures.
When I close a book, my weary heart sighs as I say goodbye to the colors fading from my eyes.
The world shifts back to monochrome and the fiction retreats to the backseat.
I will never be a heroine because my voyages are untitled.
The journey, the moments of standing still, the running away, the coming back home.