Why am I reading a book that makes me think of reality in a fiction-sense?
One that makes me ponder about what could have been (or at least how similar perhaps) or one that I can draw parallels with my own life or one that makes me realize just exactly the raw emotion that I feel from time to time.
The answer? It's incredibly intriguing. I'm almost getting too enveloped in it. It happens, I suppose. I have come to realize that I am a dreamer and therefore my own world is more preferable to the one in which I live. I want to change things and make them go my way, but the reality of the matter is that there is nothing that I can say or do to do such a thing. But I, nevertheless, plug in scenarios in my head and dream about the fictional situations coming to life. My imagination is a very dangerous place to reside or have any knowledge of, in fact. Very dangerous, indeed.
Work was work. I'm tired of talking or complaining about it. The truth of the matter is that I need it and therefore, I should be grateful. No matter the endless hours or the conditions under which I operate or the people I operate with.
Jenny wants to go to the park on Tuesday with me and just read. I have, yet again, this perfect image formed in my mind. Cursed imagination. Perfection is not a reality and it plays tricks on my mind. However, the idea of a day in the park, reading until I have to go to work is a very nice idea, actually. I agreed to go, happily. Only, I forgot to tell her that I have no way of getting there- Joe is in school until at least 2:30 and I am without a vehicle. Well, I'll tell her tomorrow of this dilemma and maybe she'll offer me a ride- or to reschedule.
I want to write something that means something to someone.
Chau for now.