Tired Of Living In Fiction Novels & Stories

I sip my coffee and I still cannot believe how I got myself here. I have never been one to run away from my problems. I have always been an advocate of fighting. Fighting for my place, my rights. But I have no energy to fight anymore. One of the reasons I have always fought was because I had the backup of my parents. Now I had no one. I do not have a reason to fight again. I am tired. I just want a quiet life. I was a fool thinking I would have just that with Adrian. A big billionaire and CEO of one of the largest companies in the country and has a crazy baby momma.

Except most maids don't work night shifts. Damn! Now I have to find a place that has night workers... Maybe I can work at a gas station, and I'll get lucky and get robbed and die in a marvelous shoot out where I ended up the hero... Yeah, I think I'm delusional now. But I'd much rather live in the fake story in my head than in the real world where bad things happen, on purpose and consistently. I could run away from all of this. And I plan to... The moment I get my degree. But right now, I don't have the money to live on my own.

“I can’t believe you actually read this shit. It’s fucking hilarious. This dude just came like five times inside this chick, like right in a row. In what universe is that even believable?” Oh my God, of course he’d found a sex scene of all things. “It’s fiction,” I argued defensively as I yanked my Kindle from his hand. “I like it a little bit unbelievable. That’s why I read it, you moron. To escape the real world. If I wanted believable, I’d just stop reading and return to my life.” “Yeah, but she called his dick a meat shaft.” “Oh my God.” I scowled. “You’re one of those annoying people who quibble over every little detail in a book, aren’t you?”

There were no scattered papers, no late-night calls, no decisions made in the glow of a screen, just books everywhere, and that was all I needed tonight. I pulled a book from the shelf without looking at the title. It was fiction. I had not read a story for fun in over a year. I slipped into the big armchair by the window, opened it, and read the first paragraph, nothing sank in. I read it again. Something in me finally stopped resisting. I let myself focus on the book, and the room was quiet around me. This time, the words began to draw me in. I wasn’t just tired from lack of sleep, it was a deeper kind of tiredness, the kind that comes from spending months being two different people in one

But as I grew older, I realized there are no real fairy godmothers (of some sort), or a prince charming that would suddenly save me from every little thing I’ve been through. Maybe because they’re all fiction—too unrealistic. They’re just that—meant to be read and watched by kids. Anything fairytale does not even apply in adulthood anymore—if back then we survived as kids because we only thought about castles and fairies and all that grandeur stuff, but adulthood was the reality—it was a harsh slap that woke me up from my dream. Ah… fuck being an adult. Every day makes me want to commit a crime or fake my information and marry a conglomerate heir and then live my life in lies for the rest of

If I was being honest with myself, I would say that it was beautiful but it was a pity I wasn’t feeling any of those happy emotions. “Mtcheww, stupid alarm” I hissed sitting up and slamming it on the head. Saying hello to the grumpy part of me. Now I felt it was just nothing but noise. I yawned and stretched again. I felt strong and healthy. And I knew the reason for it. I didn’t write last night, that is why I don’t feel bodily tired. Due to a thing called deadlines and writing, I rarely slept so well or was sociable. Don’t worry these were not my words but that of my friends and parents. Last I checked I was having the time of life in my room, with my laptop, creating and tearing down char

Temujin put these thoughts aside because Sasha had resumed his story. “I got bored with my phantasmal life after a while. It was like being in the infirmary. All students wanted to fake an illness just to get a short break but once you had a really long one you’d start to feel that life was passing you by. All the normal, healthy people were going about their lives but time had stopped for you. The world had ended for you but not for everyone else, so it was moving forward and leaving you behind.

Wishing they were proud of me, even a little. I stood and walked toward my room. If my life were a series, I thought, maybe I’ve reached the finale. Yet… The End is nowhere to be found. I cannot close the book. I don’t want to start a new one. I am too young to feel this tired.

None of which would have helped if they needed them. “Why don’t you love me?” Cara asked. “When you’ve been alive as long as I have, you learn to live alone. It’s better that way.” “Why? Is it because everyone you know eventually dies?” “That was at first, but living a long life makes you cynical. I can’t stand people anymore. I can’t stand what they do, and what they say. I’d rather live in a cube than be around those pathetic fucks. I get so sick of the politics, the religion. I’ve heard it all before, over and over, and it never changes. The people may change, but the circumstances never do. Some themes are timeless. There’s always someone coming for your gun, or your god. People are so s

A boredom so profound it threatened to unravel its own consciousness. In its despair, it used its vast power to perform an ultimate act of narrative control: it began to *fictionalize* itself. It started rewriting its own past, not to change it, but to label it. *This was a comedy,* it would decide, and the memory would become flat, a series of punchlines. *This was a tragedy,* and the pain would become a aesthetic object, stripped of its sting. It was turning the vibrant, messy tapestry of its life into a neatly organized library of genres. It was committing the final, quiet sin: treating its own existence as a story that was already over.