The fantasies haunt me every waking moment. They torment me in my sleep. All I ever want is a life full of excitement and adventure, and sometimes it seems merely writing about it isn't enough.
My beloved characters, the very personal ones with a depth that no character really has when I read about them, are the main reason I twist the plots and complicate the story. They finally seem to be a part of me. My characters are the very people that I am, in multiple forms and personalities. It's a further extension of my heart, where their hearts beat in sync with mine.
I put all my aggression into a woman with a simple appearance and a complicated background; someone who I wish I could be. In a sense, my role models don't particularly come from the outside world, but from a person composed of my own admiration and standards. I've developed a character who shares the twists and tangles of complicated emotions I feel every day, the sense of duty I share with my coworkers every shift. The gentleness and quiet within me pours itself into a man who only wants what is best for his friends. Then lastly, my heroism, my strength and determination, all my tolerance for everything I wish I could be immature about, glistens within the soul of my precious McKenzie, whom takes the lead in my dramatic story of death, war, and love.
These characters define the fantasy world in which I dwell. The idea that I need to be there for as long as I can makes learning and concentrating very difficult some days. They call to me and ask me to come back and fight with them in epic wars between good and evil. It's true that these yearning day dreams complicate my life almost in a controlling sense, that if I were to make connections with music or other texts, I would almost always find a link with my own tale.
It's like emerging from a pool coated in silver; the depth of my personalities intertwined with characters and slowly growing outward from there. The story, the plot: it all relates to situations I've been in, seen, or heard about. It's a blossoming bud growing bigger and bigger as spring dances along, slowly adding to its simple beauty with layers and layers of red and pink petals. Just as my own life events seem to grow bigger and bigger, each adding a layer of experience and wisdom to who I am, my imagination and surroundings grow with it. The settings to follow within my fantasies are ones of coldness, darkness, beauty, and light. Each is different in its own ways, but the same, just as America is to me.
The shiny outer layer is the writing and the progress it takes to make this come to life within my mind. The grace and flow of my words conjoined with the utter labor creates an entirety to the story, like tying the bow after concealing, boxing, and wrapping the surprise within. It’s exhausting sometimes, just like writing a chapter of an epic tale on a pad of notepaper.
I've set myself up for the extras, the obstacles, and the antagonist, whom begins to morph into someone of high importance and thought within the story. Though I have chosen the facade of normality and goodness, there is a monster underlying the mask with chains as thick as football fields and ferocity as passionate as fire. To let this part of me out would be to destroy everything I have ever worked for, but to disregard its presence at all is to die completely.
My villainous character, in all his grandeur, obtains predilections for specifically normal objects and acquires a rather courteous and obscure behavior to everything he says and does. His utmost normality is the reason he is so dangerous and evil. He merely has a goal to accomplish, and that determination I give my heroine reflects within the villain, thus giving the bittersweet relationship structure and meaning. I build upon my strengths by adding to my weaknesses, such is climbing the chained monster's horns and reaching the angelic light above.
There is a difficulty, however, with all this complexion and verism. How on earth do I morph these feelings of romance, doom, and heroism when I live a repetitious life dealing with teenage dramas and customer service? Obviously there must be a threshold between the two realities that should shut out one or the other while I try to cope with the loss of realistic characters or missing homework assignments.
The thought of using one another to build and strengthen both myself and the two worlds would be appealing, yet condemning, for discovering the tool to make such a miracle happen is what I believe to be the real truth we all vie to obtain in this life. Everyone has their second reality they struggle with, whether that is a teenage girl's desirable cheerleader life, or an old man's wish for peace and happiness within the world. We as human beings need something else to hold on to if our very real lives crumble between our fingertips.