Living vicariously

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Lipstick smudges in the corners of the wilted pages of my favorite book tell a love story. One I ache to step into, to breathe its air, taste its grief, and suffer the horrors of actually living as a possible human being. My own life feels like that of a stone with a pulse, unmoved except when I live vicariously through the fictional souls crafted by real people whose own lives, weren’t enough to satisfy the tragedy of being human. So I’ve rented an apartment in fiction, tucked away in my head. I live there like a tenant, paying rent in illusions, wallpapering the walls with borrowed dreams to hide a void too vast and too dark to step into.

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