That Is Not My Story
That is not my story.
Yes, I still love to read fantasy novels, but it doesn’t make me any less of an adult. I go to work, even if it’s often tedious and irritating. I pay all my bills on time, whether there’s a long line in front of me or not, whether I’ll have enough for a new game after that or not. I keep my apartment reasonably clean, and I cook most of my meals.
And so, even though I sometimes slip, and spend too much time binge-watching whatever picks my curiosity on Netflix, I’m definitely a responsible person and an adult. I wouldn’t skip work because of it, or eat whatever I find in the fridge as long as it doesn’t bite. I wouldn’t spend unreasonable amount of time wishing I was in a different world, any world that’s not the one I’m trapped in, with boring work and nobody to talk to. That’s not me, and that is not my story.
And even binge-watching doesn’t make me completely lose track of time. I know that I have to get up tomorrow and go to work, and I know that I have to sleep before that. That’s not me, this imaginary irresponsible person who would do that, and that is not my story.
As a responsible person and an adult, if I did spend too much time binge-watching this amazing show that never seems to end, and barely slept at all because of that, I would still go to work. I’d do it several days in a row, if that’s what it takes, if I really couldn’t resist watching a season a day until I catch up with the latest episodes. And I would still try to cook a proper meal, and I wouldn’t forget all about it, and I wouldn’t fall asleep with the stove on.
I wouldn’t, because that person is not me, and that is not my story.
And if the smoke and the fire woke me up, I wouldn’t just run out, still lost and confused, and run, and run, and run. I would yell and alert people, so that everyone had enough time to get out.
I wouldn’t run, and run, and run, only to return and find out that five people have died, two elderly and bed-ridden, three little ones. I never even knew any of their names.
I wouldn’t, because that person is not me, and that is not my story.
And I wouldn’t accept the deal with a very elegant gentleman who just happened to show up at the crossroads. I wouldn’t, because we all know his price, and we all know that you do not, under any circumstances, accept a deal with him.
Except that I would. If my soul is the price for them to still be alive, I would.
And so, that is not my story. The price may have been high, but that is no longer my story.
