The Art of Escapism

Books.

She had found ways to live different lives under different circumstances, with different endings — disguising herself each time.

Because every time she opened her mouth to speak, no one listened.

So she opened her book instead, slipping between its pages, hiding beneath its ink — living, feeling alive and free.

She flipped the pages, hungry for more happiness, chasing that fleeting high.

Her fingers turned frantic, pages whirling and trembling — until she reached the back cover.

Her story ended abruptly, startling her awake from her make-believe world.

Reality pressed in: dull, suffocating, and gray.

The shouting, the scolding — all of it crashing into her ears, forcing her to choke on her own words.

And like the addict she had become, she reached for more books.

Switching mentalities, personalities, beliefs, worlds, realms — until she realized she had been too swept away.

There was no return.

She was cursed to live between pages and stories, forever living lives not her own.

Always falling in love with fiction — and the best part was,

she didn’t mind.

She gave away her real life for a make-believe one.

This was the life of a reader — not by hobby,

but by necessity.