Escape

When I read or watch TV I do it to lose myself. I forget all the little things in my life I don’t quite understand. I forget all the little things that make me unhappy. Call my anti-drug if you will. I call it my bubble. Inside my bubble, my world doesn’t really exist. It’s the world of the show or book that is real at that point. It is the world of Miles Halter, of Harry Dresden, of Maddux Donner that becomes reality at that point. I lose myself in their world and become completely engrossed in their problems and lose sight of mine. I’m carefree, if only for awhile. I’m addicted to that carelessness. I need it. Because I don’t really know where I’m going or what I’m going to be or even who the hell I am. So I hang on to my escape every time I think I can’t go the distance with my problems. When I think they’ll pin me down at the sound of the first bell.
But, a bubble can’t exist forever. At some point it will pop and I’ll have to face my reality and not someone else’s.
I’m not running from monsters, I’m not facing the death of a friend, I’m not trapped in space. I should be able to face the stereotypical high school problem. I should be able to figure out who I am. Right?