The Boring Reality

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Another take on our world and seemingly boring reality.

Submitted: January 28, 2014

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Submitted: January 28, 2014



You probably know dozens, even hundreds (if you read like me) of books that narrate stories somewhere else. Or that have the supernatural come to our doorstep, simply because our home is extremely boring. Those books were always my favorites. They always had me patting the inside of every wardrobe in my house, pretending  to be possessed by my mother's rings, trying to go through my bathroom's mirror, running desperately after my neighbor's white bunny, and, the most painful of all, attempting to fly (I succeeded for about three feet). I still remember swinging at full speed and power on the hammocks of our veranda, imagining the blue one to be a fearsome ice dragon. Even my dog would take part in my fantasies, being everything and anything from Scadufax to a chimera. All of that because reality is boring. Really boring.

You probably also know, or think, that such stories are not true. Like myself, you probably may have wished with all your might to be soaring away from your pedantic life on a Firebolt, or, as I fancy, on a dragon (I do have a thing for dragons). But in the end, you would open your eyes only to find that the cast from your previous flying experience would still be up to your elbow, with a piece of a broken ruler that was used as a sort of scratching tool still inside, making the unbearable itch even worse. 

Mostly everything that I carry with me, whether it is the distorted elbow or the scar on my face, is a painful reminder that my word is dull and uninteresting. I can't shoot sparks out of a wooden stick, and I can't speak the Black Speech of Mordor. I can't find any goblins, no matter how deep into the woods I go. I can't run with the wind, I can't make my loved stories pop out of the books, alive. I can't sing with a silvery voice, and I can't breathe fire, or breathe underwater. I've lost track of how much I pulled my ears upwards, trying to be blessed with a tiny little bit of the Elven grace (that one should have worked by now). The closest I'll get to most of these stories is riding a horse and fencing. But I can't even do that simultaneously, like Elessar or the Rohirrim. 

There is no way by which I can bring all of the great stories to life. Even though I wish to, all they will ever be is an escape. A door to other worlds, my own little forest replete with magical lakes that lead me to other universes. As dim and obtuse my world is, the one enthralling aspect it possesses is the offer of alleviation. Solace from the boring reality it presents me day by day, a break from its constant sameness.

But, I have found a way to bypass that sameness. Instead of delving for the unchangeable shallowness, I seek for the unexpected. Trifle, everyday items and concepts become this world's own magic, rival to any other. Well, while it may have seemed common to travel on the back of a Parnassian in some worlds, it certainly wasn't as typical there to fly away at unthinkable speeds for a reptile in the incomprehensibly comfortable belly of a gleaming Boeing 787. It was certainly possible to own immense amounts of lands and gold an jewels, being declared wealthy. But I am positive it wasn't as easy to achieve such a status with paper, or even nothing of physical value.I believe people in those worlds would never understand how we have so much knowledge, and where we get it all from. They wouldn't see an abundance of parchment or clay tablets, or even as many books as we ought to have had. They would see scintillating liquid crystal screens, with colors and words unintelligible to their common ways. They would see so many billions of billions of words that survive without the need for ink.

Of course, we still don't want what we have. We want what seems more interesting and fascinating than our commonplace magic and wonder. Sure, the gift of the Elves to appease their horses with mere words seems amazing. But I don't need it. It would come in handy if one day I rode a horse that wasn't in its best spirits. However, I don't think that is going to happen anytime soon. I'd rather have the ability to own an immeasurable amount of information. Within all those words and pictures and events, I would keep the stories, for when I tire myself of contemplating the actual wonders I possess. Then, I can continue my never-ending game of make-believe. 

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