I’d like to write a short story, she thought to herself as she blissfully typed away on her very unsuccessful blog. She wasn’t a terrible writer by any means, she just lacked. What did she lack? Idea’s, creativity, motivation just to name a few. She laughed to herself at the thought.
She had plenty she could talk about, she could weave a web of fabrications based on her life. On the father that was never in her life and the father that was, her identity, & her struggle. But, how much could she fabricate without it being too real, too raw. To put pen to paper would be a betrayal.
Not of her family, but of all her fears and ambitions that never came to be. Even the ones that did.

She paused.
She thought.
She decided.

If she could just capture the essence of what she wanted to achieve, if she can mimic the worlds she desires to escape to so very often, maybe she can finally be free.
Free to roam the endless lands of a fictitious world where she controlled the fates of those in it. At the end of the day, that’s what it’s all about right? Control.

Biting her lip, she starts to type furiously. Nothing in particular but a mess of words on a page describing that world, that world she wishes she was in. The heroine she craves to be & the friends she know’s she has.

Is this world different from the others she tried to create?
Will it last longer than the past attempts?

Frowning at the page, she looks up and thinks.

“I fucking hope so.”


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