The Truth

The truth is: Nothing happens as easily as it does in writing. I've never had the wonderful feeling of letting myself go into the night, black and unending. I'll never know what it's like.
I crave and want, but nothing changes. I've always been able to write, but that has never been able to translate itself into real life.
I know that what I have is good, but I want better. I deserve better.
The funniest part about saying that you deserve something, however, is that by saying it you make it a lie.
I should be able to differentiate between reality and fantasy, but I remain where I am. A stalwart reminder of my inescapable body.
I want the fantasy of snow and ice. Bundling up and waiting out a storm. And when it ends I can meet all of my beautiful, classy friends, and we'll all talk about the latest faux pas in the society pages. I know that it's within my reach. I can make myself into a character from a book, tragic and beautiful. If only I could stop dragging myself down into the real world.
I will stop and be filled by the icy wind that I crave.
I won't freeze, I'll flourish.
I swear.