I read to fall in love with the world.  To experience.  To gain perspective.  To live.  To go on an adventure I’d otherwise never get a taste of in my dreary upstate bedroom.  With books I can slay dragons, travel the world, live in London during the 1800s, study magic in a castle, meet a crazy man in a Mercury hat.  With books, I’m not just a waitress — I’m a princess, a dragon slayer, a tree nymph.  With books I get to live so many different lives, meet so many friends, lovers, enemies… enemies-to-lovers.  With books I can switch my reality from snow to magic.

Wealth is what helps the rich gain experiences.  Books are what helps me.

Sometimes your best move
isn’t the one you want to play.
You can look upon your chess board of life:
analyze, strategize, anticipate.
Sometimes their next move
will blind-side you.
But you don’t simply forfeit,
you must adjust.
You keep going, keep playing.
Sometimes you’ll have to lose your best piece,
but all to protect your kingly energy.
Before you know it,
you’ll have them cornered,
by your few remaining, straggling pawns — 
you’re playing the long-game.
All while smiling:
“Checkmate!”

Every time I begin to miss you,
I remember I’m learning to move on.

Every time I want to tell you something,
I learn to grab my journal and pen.

Every time I want to show you something,
I make a video raving about it instead.

Every time the night feels a little colder,
I light a candle and pull my cardigan
just a little tighter to me.

Every time I have an urge of you,
I try to fill the void with pieces of me.

Every time I think about how I’m losing my best friend,
I remember I’m getting to know myself instead.

Every time I get excited for you to meet her,
I remind myself you still won’t love her.

Every time I just want you to be there,
I tell myself that one day there’ll be someone better,
who will outshine your shallow shadow.

I never had a chance
because I latched onto you
before you were ready,
childishly thinking you’d finally catch up to me
once you were.

I held on thinking I was your princess;
Mentally cataloging every magical moment
so I could pen it into our epic fairytale
I was writing in my head.

I was always sitting in the carriage
with the horses ready to go,
while you were shaking hands 
of every suitable lady in the ballroom.

I brush away every man
who watches me waiting alone,
wanting to take your place.

But I hold onto the hope
that maybe you’ll shake one dame’s hand
and it’ll suddenly click.

You’ll rush down the palace stairs,
and just like a pumpkin —
changing from the boy you are
to the man I knew you could be.

But I never had a chance,
so I grab hold of the reins
and the horses click away.

Because life isn’t a fairytale,
and you were never coming to save me.