Sometimes, well a lot of the times, I feel so scared of losing my purpose.

After reading a story, what exactly do we do by ourselves? Our limbs are numb and shocked back into reality, the day has passed and the story is over, but you aren’t satisfied. Why can’t it be selfishly sufficient to just have a happy ending? Naive and childish as that may be, can’t we all derive a sense of self-pity to just want a brief longevity of a happy ending?

Sometimes I ask these ridiculous questions because good authors almost never make happy endings, and I wonder if I could satisfy myself with the delusion that perhaps all our lives are a heroically written tragedy. What may the reader, the third party, reading our story feel? Do they wish for a better ending for each one of us as well?

I think some time ago in the early days of high school a teacher told me that a strategy to write good stories is more or less to have terrible things happen to great people. There is however a skill in that concept, to have those incidents happen in such a gut wrenching way you still reserve dignity as a writer. It made me think how sinful we are that we would like to read such stories, all these sad endings, and praise them indefinitely. Most likely wishing deep in our hearts that maybe there is always a further story than the one we know. Whomsoever these characters may be, they have become so real to us that we dream of a better future knowing full well that was not the intention of the story. So we just keep falling in love with stories, one after another. I keep looking to satiate myself with another story, another adventure, another life. I’d even look at one shot stories; let me fall in love quickly, quickly. I’d turn away from the clock when I glance at it, curious to see how much time has been wasted, at the same time hoping it will escape my notice. That at one point it will be too late for me to do anything for the day and I’ll feel a slight dull thud in my chest of spite, as well a repressing caress, where a part of me reveres in my incompetence.

I just don’t want to face the person in the mirror. That greasy hair and face. Those cold feet.

I still think though, for all the characters that I have come to know, I would just want to selfishly grant them a happy ending, more for myself than out of some altruistic motive. It’ll be somewhat decent, something improbable in their situation but alas something we can peacefully close the cover on. Have them live forever in that bliss, it’s a closure that we may from time to time peek into when we don’t want to look at the rest of the world.

As I lay awake on the weekend, I look around me and I do not want to get up. I always hated this lethargic feeling, it is an escape; I do not look at my phone, I do not remove myself from the same spot I had sat on for the past 6 hours. I do not change my clothes, or wash the dishes from two days ago, or turn away from the dream like state of the dim light in my small kitchen. I hardly get up to pee. It’s certainly not really respectable. I simply do not want to fight for a future. Too many times, as melodramatic as it may seem, I feel I live in such a haze. That there is no real existence. That all those people who believe I am strong – I still feel so cowardly. I have not truly known real fear in this society, to suffer from financial stress, to feel lonesome, to endure the daily grind. I feel as though I wish to delay this gratification of a better life as a punishment of sorts. So I escape into stories, hoping against hope that they will turn out better. Let it be cheesy and impossible, let that need be satiated, the want of something simply transient and beautiful.

Perhaps we’ve been secretly only wishing all these happy endings so that they may happen to us also. I wonder if it keeps us alive, fully human, to have this feeble hope. I guess I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic, or simply incredibly naive and lazy, indecent even despite the drama of destruction, I wish for a happy ending. In this case, I suppose we were never meant to forget those stories then.

Isn’t it funny that I used to criticize my sister for being so naive? That 12 year old girl trying too hard to be a grown up.