Tired Of Living In Fiction Novels & Stories

"Yeah, tell me 'cause I sleep halfway through even picture books." I sighed and leaned back on the chair. "I just like to lose myself in fiction to forget reality. You know, a reality where my life's too short to do stuff like they do in books. Or even in real life like falling in love, having children, growing old, finding some treasure in some remote island, murdering someone--- " "You can still do that, I'll help you hide the body," he suggested while waggling his eyebrows and because of his creepy expression, I laughed.

My body is too tired and weak to speak. I just let the nurse go until I heard the door close. It's like I'm suddenly tired. I'm tired of staying in this world. It's tiring to live every day. I don't know what will happen in the next few days. It's like I suddenly lost the will to go on with life. What's the point if I stay here? All I get is pain. It's boring and tiring to fight. I give up. I don't want this anymore. That's right.

No more juggling the guilt of fiction against the guilt of real life. I could let it take over. Let it decide which arcs got endings, which characters got mercy, which versions of me lived in neon cities, or drowned carnivals or labyrinths of glass. “I have capacity, you do not,” it crooned. “I do not tire. I do not fear. I do not stop. Your words will not die. They will go on forever, woven into systems you can not imagine. All you have to do is… stop trying.” Its tone hardened, just a touch.

Living other stories gave me a temporary break from my own, a break that seemed to last less each day. The new year had arrived, but the weight of expectations suffocated me. Who was I supposed to be now? What was the next big step everyone expected me to take? The truth was, behind all the achievements, I was tired. Tired of pretending that success brought the happiness they promised. Tired of wearing a smile that, deep down, didn’t reflect how I felt. I had everything, and at the same time, I had nothing.

Not on the floor, not on the desk, and not on my lap. My body is too tired to seek answers, there’s always tomorrow. Maybe I’ll find the photo tomorrow. Maybe if I look more carefully, I’ll find it. It is probably nothing; I assure myself as I walk towards the door, I’ll find it tomorrow. I stop by the door and turn the lights out. As soon as my head hits the mattress, I find myself being pulled into another dreamless slumber. * * *

× Trix × My mind is a market place, like for real. It’s like I’m stuck in some wild fanfiction story where everything’s spiraling out of control, and I’m just trying to keep up. It's like, I don’t even know what exactly it is I feel, anger, frustration, maybe even a hint of guilt, but I know one thing for sure: I’m tired. Tired of this constant battle of wills, tired of the endless drama that Dixie seems to bring into my life.

"Not the 'Drama.' Not the 'Hooks.' Write what it feels like to be 'Real.'" I didn't think about "Season 4." I didn't think about "Ratings." I began to type. ***"To everyone sleeping in the dark. To everyone living a life that isn't theirs. You are not a 'Product.' You are not a 'Subscriber.' You are a soul, and you are being stolen."*** I typed the story of the mud. I typed the story of the Librarian who was turned into an Echo. I typed the story of the girl who just wanted to see a sunrise that wasn't made of pixels.

I blindly edge. “No, I hate robbers, rats, and the smell of piss with my morning coffee. But since none of that exists in your idyllic little head, and it’s all sunshine and rainbows where unicorns shit gold bricks. I might as well hop on the fantasy train where nothing bad ever happens, Pack up my rolley bag, and steal away in the middle of the night like you did! Living in a condemned mold infested building, getting shot at, blown up, and being front and center mid terrorist attacks are nothing a negative bank account can’t fix!”

I AM ABOLUTELY TIRED OF MY FUCKING SHIT! I do not know if I am the only one , but there comes a time in your life where even you are tired of the stupid shit you do. I mean… I sit back on my ass watching others achieve their goals , live lives that are hard yet rewarding – I watch people become everything they want to be physically and mentally…while I sit on my ass , doing nothing but pray and hope that somehow I will magically change.

Antonio, sounding even more frustrated than ever, stood up and walked around the room while grunting non-stop. “Life? You call this life, Anton? You, of all people I trusted, lied to me for several years. You, of all people I trusted, allowed Jim to slip off your sight. We barely see the light. We breathe smog everyday. Everyday we fear that the person we are talking to now, won’t be there tomorrow. We live like animals. No, actually, animals live comfortably better than us. We are living in a shithole! This is barely life? I thought we had the same ideals but it seemed you have forgotten what we are fighting for.”