Someday

I often think of my life as a book. I think of it as pages being turned by someone, and they are reading how I feel, and feeling the same things that I am, with me. They’re crying with me, and living with me. They laugh when I do. They understand how I feel, because the words in the book explain it so well. And at night when I’m lying bed, I’m not alone, and when I wake from a bad dream, I’m not alone. They feel the hurt, and all of the pain that I have. They feel how heavy my heart is.

Then I remember that my life isn’t a book, and I think to myself that maybe it should be. And for a moment I think, “Yes, someday I will wake-up and be okay with everything and I will smile, and it will be real. I’ll be happy.” and I will, someday. And that will be the end, and someone will find comfort in my words, and someone will love my words the way that I have learned to love so many others. Someday..