Am I waiting on a fairy tale? Am I expecting a neat story – an introduction, a conflict, and a resolution – to just fall into my lap and lead me to my happy ending? Am I waiting for my meet cute moment to find my true love, an epiphany to decide my future, and an epilogue to plan my life?
I’ve read hundreds of books and every week I’m adding to that number. I’ve read stories filled with love and others with magic, but there’s always an adventure and some resolution at the end of a novel or a series. I can count on that conclusion, that path towards resolution, even if the ending itself isn’t happy. So am I just waiting for someone else to write my story while I take a back seat in my own life?
In a way I feel like I’m on pause, just expecting answers to appear without thought. Because no matter how often I remind myself to be strong and to chase after what I want, that feeling of expectation lingers. I wish it wouldn’t, but like an oblivious narrator I recycle my thoughts and my fears; I don’t have an objective viewpoint.
“One mind can think only of its own questions; it rarely surprises itself.”
-Ender’s Shadow, Orson Scott Card
What I want and how I feel are perpetually disconnected. I scramble for loose threads, fumbling the woven paths. Am I reaching for something that doesn’t exist? Every example I have is scripted, every model I look to a fabrication. How can I know what’s realistic when everything around me is made up?
I feel at home in my favorite books, caught up in familiar stories and the reassurance of the worlds and the lives sewn together by several hundred pages of words. I look at my journal, my blog, my Facebook and I wonder if I’ll ever feel as comfortable in my own pages as I do in the ones authored by someone else.
Will I find what I’m looking for or am I destined to be let down by my own expectations?