Addicted

I wonder why I lay here in uncomfortable positions for hours getting caught up in stories and the lives of other people, when I get mad at my boyfriend for doing the same thing by being on social media all the time. I don't crave to listen to other peoples true lives the way he does. They are far too boring to keep my attention. I crave the real (yet fictitious) happenings of people who don't exist, knowing very well that their stories will come to an end sooner than I want them to or can handle. And it's not even that all of the stories I read are so exciting and crazy that I want to read them because they are so much more thrilling than my own. Some of their lives are relatively mediocre like my own (though I love my life). I just love being in someone else's shoes with no control of what will happen to me or who I let into my life. The narrator is in the driver seat of my newly adopted life and I'm the protagonist or the antagonist, whomever the author decides to put in my mind. I get to live this new life as someone has written it but without having to (or getting to) feel any of the physical aspects of it. If I get slapped I don't feel it. I also don't feel the lingering taste of someone's kiss. But if the one I love leaves me or dies I cry and hurt. I get angry. I laugh. I feel giddy. I get every single emotion possible that the author wants me to feel. It's a rush. I crave that rush, those emotions, all those feelings. Without the expense of anything in my actual life.

But then. When it's gone, I feel empty and lonely. I feel devastated like I just lost every friend or family or lover that I have made in my new life. I want to know what they are doing at this exact moment or where they ended up. And the emptiness hits me when I have to tell myself that those people never really existed. Not in this life anyways.

Maybe I should start reading nonfiction. It might leave me less exhausted and trumped by the end of it. And I won't feel this emptiness that I do now.

Why though? Why do I feel empty for something that never really happened? My real life isn't empty. Or I don't think so anyways. Does it make me crazy that I do this to myself over and over again knowing that the same thing will happen to me? Is it my escape from my own world into another even though I know it won't last? Why.
How is this any better than escaping my world to drugs other than the physical aspect of it? I have the same type of high when I'm in the book and then when I can't get any more of it I'm at an extreme low.

You probably think I'm crazy comparing reading books to drugs. But if I use them the same way how is it any different? It isn't. Or it is. I'm not sure.

And tomorrow when I'm over this very temporary empty feeling, I'll be like wow Sydney you should not be awake during the hours of midnight and 6 am.
I couldn't help it. I had to finish the damn book. And I did and I cried and I'm sad and this is stupid but I can't stop myself from it.



A very easy and addicting and somewhat fast read if you're interested in tormenting yourself like I did. The Divergent Series by Veronica Roth include Divergent, Insurgent, and Allegiant. Also, the movie for the first book comes out in March so hurry to it.




Fuck. I need to go find another book to read.
(And sorry for the lack of blogs, just haven't had much to say for a long time).