Webs Of Delusion I Weaved For Myself.

I read a lot. My only possessions of any real worth to me are the books that I own. I have spent more than half my life living in a figment of someone else's imagination, and I've loved every second of it. The worlds may not be perfect, but good triumphs over evil every time, wrongs are righted, the heroes and heroines are magnificent and noble and brave. Almost every book I have ever read speaks of eternal hope, of how things will always get better. Think about it, how many books have you read that don't end on a happier note? These books, and the web of hope and destiny and eternal goodness that they spin, are my main coping mechanism, my one way of dealing with an unjust and imperfect world. But there are days when real life just comes crashing in, when no amount of make-believe will buffer me from the realities that frighten me. And it is on these days that I wonder whether I wouldn't be better off just burning all my books, so that I may have a snowballs' chance in hell of maybe making it in the real world. But the question is, without my books, would I be able to survive the real world at all? I really don't think I could. Like I said, it's a snowballs' chance in hell; the odds don't really seem to be in my favour.