Whenever I read, it was as if I am part of another world. Not mine; but theirs. I am a bystander who’s watching a story enfold in my eyes. Not my story; but theirs. Somehow, it made me forget that I was living in this world. It made me think about someone else’s lives not mine. And sometimes, it felt good. Felt good to actually forget about myself – about everything, even my life for once.
It was the reason why I love reading. It makes me become someone I am not. It makes me feel as if I am part of their story. But the irony of it, when I am busy reading other people’s stories; I made a mistake of overlooking what’s mine. What’s left on me; who really am I?
It saddens me to know that the stories I am reading actually had their fair share of happy endings. Whilst me, I don’t even had. I failed to notice the good things about myself. I am still looking for that something – probably another kind of love – which I cannot find on my own home.
I am easily being forgotten. I am nothing special. Partly because I didn’t treat others special too; but hey! It’s my defense mechanism. I really need to be tough sometimes, not as fragile as I seem to be.
I only asked for one thing…
Forget me not.