If I Have A Wicked Stepmother, Where's My Prince? is a good book. I haven't read it in years, and I forgot just how much I'm like Lucy. We both compare our lives to a fairy tale on a daily basis. Whereas hers is specific, mine's just sort of... out there. It draws it's elements from many stories.
I'm going to be honest. In my mind's eye, when I see the world, I look past it and see what I want to see. This house? Oh God no, it's no house. It's a castle. The Alamodome in San Antonio? A giant battle field. Prison workers digging ditches in Houston? Peasants tilling fields.
I can't turn it off. It's like my mind wants me to see everything like this. It's like synesthesia on crack, expect that this is something weirdly different, but similar in a way. Am I crazy? Am I idealistic? Am I just so damn creative that I see delusions of granduer?
I blame it on the house in New Jersey. I blame it on my room being professionaly painted to look like a black, grey, and blue stone dungeon. It was my tower, my ivory tower. That's an allusion from class, actually, as an ivory tower means a place that is distant form the world and safely tucked away. It's also a Blackmore's Night song now that I think of it. Either way. I'm crazy.
No one knows. No one would take me seriously. I'm just good at hiding it and letting my mind wander all day. I've told a few people about instances when I was younger, and they just laughed at me. Imagine how awful it'd be if they still knew I did it today. I hate this world, I want to live in Empathica. That place I paint all the time, with everyone there. Good God, I am crazy.
xx But No One Really Knows Where We Are Going From Here Marz
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