I live in stories.

They frame my world so that each turn of the corner is the prospect of a new adventure, each long-held gaze, a mystery to uncover.  I hold on to the power of narrative in the hopes that it will shape my life, guide it along the path of the heroines that have come before me.  It is never enough to simply do but to record each action, shape them into some semblance of a plot, that tenuous thread that turns ordinary moments into synchronous events.

I live in stories because I am uncomfortable anywhere else. 

I am made up of the words and books I devoured as a child, and later still, as an adult.  In my veins are the ink and pulp that shape the worlds I carry into my own.  The spine of the leather-bound book on my desk is my spine, holding together pages upon pages of written memory with glue and vertebrae.  I do not know how to be anything other than imagination and so flail, often wordlessly, hopelessly when I brush up against the literal--that heavy brick that does not know the meaning of wings.

I live in stories because I know that my life is a mercurial entity, always twining its way through this world in a curious expression of abundance and experience bound by the layers of what could be.

I live in stories because I know that I am a story.