"You're tall, do you play basketball?"
"Oh hey you're short, do you play mini-golf?"
I read this somewhere and it's stuck in my head. Because I was just asked the same question the other day and I was tempted to answer that. Not to say I'm tall per se. My height is only 168cm. I feel short.
I feel like digging a hole somewhere and bury myself in there. Factual essays are harder to write than fictions and is just another form of brain torture. I swear, there's a streak of sadism in their heads. Back in those days, 360 seemed a lot. And I'd write 700 words with ease. But that was fictional. Facts are limited. They're confined in a box, packed, condensed, concise. Facts can't be altered. They're there, true and proven so. Facts can't be elaborated. The words to describe them are those that revolved around them, limited and uninteresting.
Facts are what built the reality. Harsh, cold and dull.
And so is our lives. They're facts. Dull, concise and a bore. There's nothing you can do about it. It's not a fairytale, and it never will be. The pens in our hands, the quilt that we use to write our stories, are just as plain as the rest of us.
Face it. Reality checks are a pain in the ass. But I guess we have no choice but to live with it.
...3000words essay. Damn you.
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